Later that afternoon the new company arrived from Barin Field and a lanky, leathery cadet named Burl Atcher was assigned to Horne’s bunk. Atcher was full of questions about the flying characteristics of the SBD, and he was nearly overcome when he discovered that Saufley cadets ate not from aluminum trays but from plates, the same as civilians. Then Melvin told him about the napkins. Atcher found it hard to believe.
“Shucks, buddy boy,” he muttered. “Cloth napkins!”
“That’s right,” Melvin answered, lying on the bunk and trying to wiggle his toes one at a time for lack of anything better to do. “No more paper. They’re made out of linen and you get a clean one for every meal.”
“Shucks,” the new cadet said. “I ain’t had me a napkin since Ponca City.”
“This is a pretty good base,” Melvin told him. “You’re going to like it here.”
Eventually the conversation got around to why Melvin was alone in the barracks. He had hoped Atcher would not inquire, but knew the question was inevitable.
“I’ve been washed out,” he said, and waited.
Atcher frankly stared.
“It’s the truth,” Melvin said. “I’m waiting for my orders. In a few days I’ll be going to Great Lakes.”
“Your buddies gone to Mainside?”
Melvin nodded, reluctant to talk about it. All of them were at the main station now, polishing their shoes and getting their uniforms pressed. Next Tuesday their names would be announced over a loudspeaker and they would march across a platform to receive a diploma and shake hands with the commandant of the base. “They left a little while ago. They were pretty excited about it.”
Atcher suddenly sprawled on the bunk that had belonged to Horne. “Shucks, buddy, I guess! I tell you for dang sure, I’m looking forward to that day.”
“It won’t be long,” Melvin told him, and he could not help hating Atcher a little, not for anything he had said, or done, but because he had appropriated the desk, and the lamp, and the closet—everything—that had belonged to Horne.
Atcher propped himself up on one elbow. “I’m dang sorry. I sure am. A good buddy of mine got washed out at Albuquerque for no reason at all. Spang!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Like that! They didn’t give him no reason at all. Just out he went.”
“So you were at Albuquerque,” Melvin said, although he was hardly conscious of Atcher. Ever since his friends had left the station he had been unable to think clearly; he kept seeing the row of officers at the board of review and kept hearing the courteous, irrelevant questions they put to him. He saw the gray epaulets and the midnight-blue epaulets with the stripes and the star, and the wings above the immaculate quadrangles of campaign ribbons, and the battle stars. They had not known anything about him except what was written on the record. He half heard Atcher talk about the various bases he had gone through; Atcher had arrived at each base—Iowa, Albuquerque, Athens, Memphis—an hour or so after Melvin left.
“Say,” he was asking, “did you ever meet up with that crazy cadoodler?”
“The program’s full of them. Which one?”
“The one that shot down that gyrene colonel.”
A familiar sense of discouragement came over him when he heard this, but at last he said, “The guy was a captain, not a colonel. He wasn’t shot down—he just got two bullet holes in the wing. It was an accident.” He intended to let it go at that, but knew that sooner or later Atcher would suspect the truth. He decided to get it over with. “His name was Teitlebaum. He was my instructor. He was closer to the target than he should have been and my aim was bad. He wasn’t injured; just plenty mad. That’s the story.”
Atcher was chewing a match, eyes narrowed. “Buddy boy, was that you?”
“It was. Amen. Yes, it was,” Melvin said.
Atcher needed a while to get used to the idea that he was actually talking to the cadet who had shot his instructor. At last, placing stress on it, and concluding with a heavy wink, he said, “Some accident!”
Melvin became uncomfortable when anyone winked at him; he winked back just as deliberately and said in an irritable voice, “Strictly between you and me, friend, it was no accident.”
“Dang!” Atcher called, and sat erect with an expectant grin.
“Yes, that’s right, but keep it confidential,” Melvin went on. “You see, I never did like that son of a bitch and he rode me once too often. I doubt if he’ll bother me again.” It had been a long time since he had lied to anyone and he had forgotten how refreshing it could be. The ideas began to flow; he felt as though he could talk for hours, and as one lie danced after another he became alert, cheerful, and often gestured with expansive good humor. “What’s more,” he continued, chuckling, “if I could get Captain Teitlebaum in front of a thirty-caliber one more time—” he snapped his fingers, flung his arms apart, and fell on the bunk. “Listen, pal,” he resumed, sitting up, “too bad you weren’t here the other day to see what I did. I wrecked an SBD. What do you think of that!”
Atcher, removing the match, studied him in grave surprise. “It was you done cracked up that old Dauntless?”
“You mean you’ve heard about it?”
“Surely did. Only didn’t nobody at Barin reckon it was the same cadoodler.”
“Friend, are you trying to tell me Barin Field has heard about that wreck?”
Atcher was unable to keep from staring at him as though he were an object on display; he resented this, but for the moment he was so startled that all he could think about was that if Barin Field knew of the wreck, so must every other auxiliary station.
“She didn’t burn you none?”
“No. I wasn’t burned.”
Atcher seemed disappointed. “We done heard how she cooked you like a strip of bacon.”
“Just a bump on my forehead,” Melvin replied, and touched the bandage.
“Buddy,” the cowboy said, “I been hearing about you all the way through this here program, only I didn’t know it was you.” He came shambling across the room with one hand extended.
Melvin understood that he was being congratulated; for what reason he could not imagine, however he accepted the hand, which was callused and scaly and reminded him of a lizard.
In the next few days he spent most of his time drinking coffee in the recreation hall or at the hangar, watching the planes take off and land, or observing the enlisted men—how they responded to officers, what they did when they were off duty—and he often contrived to overhear their conversation, which now seemed to him singularly fascinating. And because he was at liberty until his orders arrived he went to Pensacola or Mobile every evening, as much to avoid his new roommate as for any other reason.
Since he had not yet paid for his uniforms he called up Pettigrew’s and explained that he had been washed out and asked if he could return them. Pettigrew’s said he could not, and that he would be expected to pay for them.
On the day his friends were to become officers he took a bus to the main station and hunted up the barracks where they were quartered. More than two hundred cadets from various squadrons would graduate that afternoon and the barracks echoed with shouting, singing, and laughter. Cadets rushed in every direction, back and forth through the corridors, up and down the stairways and from one room to another. Melvin did not see anyone he knew. He was standing uncertainly at the top of the stairs with his cap over one eye and his hands in his hip pockets when he heard a hoarse bellow of rage and frustration halfway down the corridor and the crash of an object hurled to the floor or against a wall. He walked toward the noise, looked into a room, and found Horne dancing about in an agony of indecision and glowering at himself in a full-length mirror.
“Oh, it’s you,” Horne said. “Did you ever in your life see such a miserable uniform? Honest to God, the money I paid that quack tailor! It shrunk when I had it dry-cleaned. I wanted to get rid of that new look, you know, so I had it cleaned, see, and by God it shrunk! It’s too tight!”
“Tailors
aren’t quacks,” Melvin said, “they’re hacks. You’re thinking of doctors.”
Horne tore off the blouse, swore at it, and trotted out of the room with his fists clenched.
Just then Pat Cole wandered in. “The ail-American boy seems to have a problem,” Cole remarked as he tapped a cigarette on the back of his wrist.
“He’s excited.”
“As usual.”
Melvin smiled. “I suppose you’ve received your orders by now.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I have them. We all do.”
“Judging from your attitude I’d guess you received what you expected.”
Cole glanced at him in a friendly way, as though Melvin had complimented him. “Yes. Two weeks’ leave, after which I report to the instructors’ college at New Orleans. Incidentally, my parents are here. I’ll introduce you, if you like. My pater tells me the Glenview assignment has also been arranged. He spoke to the commodore the last time he was in Washington. All in all, I have no complaints.” He tossed the lighter nonchalantly in his hand. “Do you know, for the past three days, Melvin, they’ve had us out drilling in the hot sun—right face, left face, left oblique—the entire syllabus, as though we were apprentice seamen. A Marine corporal has been our drill instructor. This was the Navy’s final gesture of humiliation toward us; it was altogether deliberate. There was no need to abuse us, but the Navy did it, and this porcine Marine concurred with obvious delight. He stood in the shade, mind you, in that grotesque, licentious way Marines are taught to stand, with their hips thrust forward, and from there he bawled the orders, switching his thigh with a stick. I gather he is allowed to do this every week. I suspect he has erotic dreams about it. Well,” said Cole with an absent smile, “he has a gift coming from me, although he isn’t cognizant of it yet. He enjoyed himself with Aviation Cadet Cole. However, as soon as the designation ceremony concludes, Ensign Cole is going to the Marine barracks—for a ‘chat,’ should we say?” He looked around; Horne was just coming into the room. He bowed sardonically, murmured, “Adieu, gentlemen, adieu,” and sauntered away.
Horne scowled after him. “I’d crucify that clown if it was worth the effort.”
“It isn’t. What duty did you draw?”
“Fighters. Operational at Jacksonville,” Horne muttered. He was powdering his jaw with talcum. “They call these new 4U’s the ensign killers. A fellow I ate breakfast with was telling me two ensigns got it last week at Jax, stalled on the final turn and went down like sheep in a slaughterhouse. I was hoping for an F6—that’s what Kerdolph drew.”
Melvin walked to the window where he stood looking toward the area where the ceremony was to be held. He could see a rectangle of collapsible chairs and a platform with a lectern and microphone, and flags to either side. Some enlisted men were unrolling a long red carpet.
“Come look at your reward,” he said.
Horne came to the window. “I’ll be damned! It actually is a red carpet. Well, it’s no more than we deserve, after what they put us through.”
A few minutes later Roska dashed into the room and demanded in a menacing voice, “All right, you people, where is it?” He smelled of bay rum and cleaning fluid.
“Is what?” Horne replied mildly; he was straddling a chair and was trying to sew up a hole in one of his socks.
“Don’t get smart!” Roska shouted.
Horne, lifting the black silk sock, examined it critically while the needle and thread swayed back and forth. “If you wish us to assist you, sir, you’ve got to be more specific.”
“Oh, hello,” Roska said, seeming to recognize Melvin for the first time. Then he threw back his head and called, “Now hear this! You people! Whoever stole my bourbon bring it back on the double!” Then, as if he had remembered something, he clutched his head and hurried down the corridor.
“What are—” Melvin began, intending to ask what Horne was going to do after the ceremony, but stopped because several cadets he had never seen before were in the doorway arguing about the number of wings that could be worn. One cadet had a row of wings pinned to his shorts.
“So what was that all about?” Melvin asked when they had moved along.
“Same old story—women. You’d think the Navy was commissioning a bunch of goats, the way these people go after it. That guy with all the wings, he doesn’t think about anything else. Night before last we went into town and he laid a bet he could make a WAC, a WAVE, a BAM, and a civilian before liberty expired, and by God if he didn’t! I never heard of such a thing,” Horne added piously. “It was revolting.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“Ostrowski hid in the closet.”
“That must have been some party.”
“Yes, it was,” said Horne. “It was quite an evening.”
After a moment Melvin said, “I still don’t understand about the extra wings. What’s he wearing so many for?”
“He figures it’ll make it even easier. Whenever he runs into a stubborn broad he’ll give her a pair and say they were the ones he wore when he was commissioned at Pensacola. He figures she’ll be so flattered she’ll hop right into the sack.”
“But why is he actually wearing them? There’s no way of telling whether or not a pair of wings were literally worn during the ceremony. He could hand out a pair and merely say they were the ones he wore.”
“I don’t know,” said Horne. “But it’s certainly sickening.” He had wetted a new thread and was attempting to poke it through the eye of the needle.
Melvin watched for a while, and then said, “After the war where do you plan to study architecture? Once you mentioned going to Europe.” During the past few days he had almost stopped thinking about the Navy; it seemed temporary and unimportant.
But Horne paid no attention; he was restlessly brushing his coat, brushing around the wings and ignoring the rest of the coat. He decided he had pinned the wings too high, so he took them off and tried again. This time he pinned them too low. Now he was concerned about the number of holes he was punching in the cloth; he licked his thumb and pressed at the holes, and scratched them with his fingernail, and finally blew on them in hopes they would disappear. At last he got the wings where he wanted them. He put on the coat and buttoned it up and stepped in front of the mirror. Melvin handed him the gold-braided hat. He put the hat on straight. Later, after he had been an ensign for a little while, it would be worn at a slightly rakish angle; he would not remove the grommet in order to crush the crown and sling the hat on the back of his head as Army pilots did, and he would not do this because he was a Navy pilot. He would no more mash his hat than he would wear crushed leather boots and twirl a key chain as he walked along the street, yet in the wearing of this hat he would contrive to let the civilians know he was no amateur.
He saluted himself in the mirror, clicked his heels, tried to see his own profile. He barked a few orders. “Get the hell back in ranks! Get the hell off your can! Get the hell up when you see an officer approach!” He thrust his head forward until the visor tapped the mirror with a dry click. “On the double now. Jump! Get the lead out!”
“Terrifying,” Melvin said. “How about trying it with your pants on?”
Horne flexed his hairy, muscular thighs. “Maybe I’ll go get the bird this way. Give the folks a treat, huh?”
“Is your name Horne?” somebody asked, looking into the room.
“That’s me, Buster. What’s your problem?”
“You’re wanted on the phone downstairs. Long distance. Nebraska.”
“Is that a fact!” Horne said. “What do you know, my old man squandering a buck! Well, what do you think about that? Hogan’s goat!” he muttered, and went trotting down the hall.
McCampbell stopped by with a letter from his sister. She was a WAC who worked in the Pentagon, and he had a snapshot of her; she was about forty years old and very plain. Horne returned, and Roska appeared with a paper cup of whisky, and Kerdolph and Ostrowski and two other cadets in ensign’s uniforms whose names
Melvin did not know, but whose faces were familiar from somewhere. Then all at once it was time to go, and still fumbling with buckles and buttons they crowded into the corridor and down the steps and began milling around outside the barracks.
Melvin stood a short distance away and looked at them. The uniforms, being new, had not taken on the characteristics of the owners, with the result that the ensigns were almost indistinguishable from each other. Cole was so tall and erect that Melvin located him, and McCampbell, being small and curiously lopsided, was standing near him; and because there were only four Marines, resembling birds of paradise in their dress uniforms, he was able to find Roska. But Horne had vanished among the other two hundred officers. Melvin knew him so well, knew his stance and his every gesture so perfectly, that he was puzzled by the way Horne blended with the crowd, and edged closer trying to find him, but could not.
A lieutenant trotted down the barracks steps with a silver whistle on a lanyard around his neck and Melvin knew the cycle was now complete, for he recalled a summer day and a crowd of young men at a train station. There was a Navy truck parked at the edge of the platform and there was a lieutenant with a whistle who ordered them to throw their baggage aboard the truck and fall into ranks, and then they had gone marching beneath the elm trees of an Iowa town where locusts sang through the late afternoon.
The lieutenant brought the company to attention and made a tour of inspection. He straightened a few neckties and here and there pulled down the visor of a hat that was cocked. He gave the command to right face. He took his place at the head of the column.
“Forward,” he called over his shoulder, and Melvin closed his eyes, again in the Iowa town, hearing the gears of the Navy truck and feeling the afternoon sun on his neck.
“Harch!”
“Eee-yo-lep,” they chanted, tramping along, “eee-yo-lep, yo-right, yo-lep.”
“Pipe down!” he called. And then there was only the cadence of their shoes on the gravel, on the hard packed earth, crossing the street, and on the grass.
Melvin trailed along with his hands in his pockets. There were no clouds in the sky and there was no sign of a Gulf breeze. The cadets marched across the base with their arms swinging in unison and the lieutenant never stopped calling cadence.
The Patriot Page 28
