The Aviators

by W. E. B Griffin

  He touched her face, and felt her stiffen.

  "How about privileged?" he asked, softly.

  She turned her face and looked at him.

  "I'm trying very hard to feel ashamed of myself.âť

  âśWhat for?âť

  âśCome on, Johnny. 'What for?' âś

  âśI say again, 'What for?' âś

  âśThis is Allan's bed.âť

  âśNot anymore, it isn't," Johnny Oliver said. "It's your bed now. You, single, not you the couple." Her face grew tight at that, and her lips pressed together.

  Thinking that she might want him to comfort her, he put his hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her to him. But her whole body stiffened then; and he pulled harder. And finally' she gave in and came to him, and he lay back and put his arm around her shoulder. He thrashed around until he was under the sheet with her. Then he kissed her hair.

  "It's unfair," she said. "A man gets randy, and he goes looking for a little, and he's one of the boys. A sex-starved woman who gives into an impulse is a slut.âť

  âśI don't think you're a slut.âť

  âśThank you," she said, and playfully kissed his chest.

  "Even if you don't mean it, and wouldn't have dared to agree with me." He laughed, and when his chest moved, he was aware of her breasts on his abdomen.

  "What if I'm pregnant?" she asked.

  Jesus, what if she is? That's all I need, a problem like that.

  "If you are, we'll deal with it," Johnny said, hoping he sounded more sincere than he felt.

  "If I am, just to clear the air, it's my problem, not yours. âś

  âśIs this what they call postcoital depression?"

  She chuckled. "Probably.âť

  âśWell, I'm not depressed," he said. "I feel better than I've felt in months." You're pretty good at this lying bullshit, Oliver. When they throw your ass out of the Army, you can probably make a good living as a gigolo.

  "Has it been that long for you, Johnny, months?âť

  âśYeah," he said. "It has." That is, if we don't count that nurse at Fort Devens who just loved aviators.

  "It's been two years for me," she said. "Allan went to 'Nam two years ago next week." After a moment Johnny said, "I was one of those they sent to chopper school after fixed wing. They sent six of us from that class. The rest went right to 'Nam.âť

  âśHow many from your fixed-wing class, all of you that went to 'Nam, are dead?âť

  âśI don't know," he said. He thought it over. "Five, six, I suppose. âś

  âśYou sound pretty callous.âť

  âśI don't mean to. It's a war. People get killed in wars.

  Always the other guy.âť

  âśYou didn't get hurt?âť

  âśI got shot, if that's what you mean.âť

  âśWhere?âť

  âśIf you move your hand about four inches lower, you will feel a zipper," he said.

  She moved her fingers and found the scar and traced it with the balls of her fingers. And then she suddenly sat up to get a look at it.

  "My God, that's awful!âť

  âśIt wasn't as bad as it looks." He gave in to the temptation to touch her breast, and then to cup it in his hand.

  Now I'm getting horny again. What's going on? It is time, Oliver, to fold your tent and silently steal away, grateful that you didn't hang yourself up with a widow woman.

  She looked down at him but didn't speak.

  He felt himself growing erect.

  And this time he wanted her to look at him, to be aware of him.

  "Put your hand on it," he said.

  "On what?âť

  âśWhat do you think?âť

  âśJohnny!" He took her hand and directed it toward his groin. She closed her eyes, but she touched him. And then she rolled onto her back.

  He guided himself into her. She pulled her knees back, but she turned her face to one side and kept her eyes tightly shut.

  For a moment he stiffened. And then he stopped thrusting into her. There was no response. Have I embarrassed her?

  Then he said, quietly, "Do you think this is sordid? Is that why you won't look at me?" She shook her head but didn't respond.

  And then he understood what she was doing, and he felt anger nearly overcome him.

  It's not me after all! It's him!

  That s pretty fucking perverse. Really sick. Am I just imagining it? Goddamn it, goddamn her, that's just what she's doing!

  "Look at me," he ordered.

  She shook her head from side to side, no.

  "Look at me, goddammit!" She turned her face to him, opened her eyes, and glowered at him. He started to thrust at her again. Her eyes closed.

  "Open your goddamned eyes!" he said.

  They opened. He wasn't sure if she was angry or frightened. Maybe both.

  "Don't you pretend I'm Allan!" he said, coldly furious.

  There was pure hate in her eyes.

  "That's obscene," she said disgustedly.

  "You're goddamn right it is," he said and stopped moving in her. "And that's what you were doing. That's what happened before!âť

  âśLet me up," she said, coldly. "Get off of me.âť

  âśNo fucking way," he said. "You said you wanted some after two years and now you're going to get it. But it's going to cost you. You're going to know it's me and not him." Then he started thrusting into her again.

  "You sonofabitch," she hissed angrily, looking at him now, tears running down her cheeks. "You miserable sonofabitch!

  I hate you!" He could feel her loins were responding to his.

  Oh, God, don't let me come, not yet! Not until she realizes that I'm alive and in her, and Allan is really dead.

  "Say my name," he said hoarsely, barely able to speak.

  "Goddamn you!âť

  âśSay it!âť

  âśJohn. Johnny.âť

  âśSay, 'I want you, Johnny.' âś

  âśI don't want to!" she said, an entreaty.

  "Say it!" She sucked in her breath audibly.

  "Oh, God!" she moaned.

  "Look in my eyes, and say, 'I want you, Johnny.' "

  "No!"

  "You're fucking me, not a ghost!âť

  âśOh, goddamn you!âť

  âśSay it!âť

  âśI want you, Johnny! Oh, God, I want you, Johnny!" He felt her begin to convulse as his orgasm overwhelmed him.

  When he came to his senses, he was lying on her and she was crying. He rolled off her and pulled her onto him and held her tightly, until her convulsions stopped, until her breathing became normal again. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "I don't know," she said, icily, matter-of-factly. "I've never been raped before.âť

  âśYou crazy bitch!" he said, furiously, pushing her off him, sitting up in the bed, swinging his feet to the floor. "Raped?

  Are you fucking kidding? I didn't drag you into this goddamned bedroom. I didn't pretend you were a goddamned woman who was two years dead." He started to get up. She moved quickly across the bed, and, hanging on to him, one arm around his neck, the other on his shoulder, prevented him from getting up.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  He sat without moving. His body was tense and his, muscles were like stone.

  When she's let me go, I will get up. To hell with this!

  She started to cry.

  Bullshit! I'm not going to fall for that!

  He could feel her warm breath on his back, and the pressure of her breasts.

  He shook himself, violently, free of her, and turned to look at her, and all of a sudden he had his arms around her again. He held her against his chest, rubbing her back tenderly, and her hair, and after a while, she stopped crying.

  And then she rolled away from him.

  "I think you'd better go, Johnny," she said, softly, evenly.

  He turned his head to look at her. Her face was turned away from him.

  He rose from the bed and found his clothes, then got dressed and left.

  [
TWO]

  The Officers' Open Mess Fort Rucker, Alabama

  0815 Hours 13 January 1964

  First Lieutenant Charles J. Stevens, a long, lanky Arkansan, put his tray, which held ham and eggs, biscuits, two half-pint containers of milk, coffee, and the Dothan Eagle, on the table and unloaded it item by item, wordlessly. The table was already occupied by Second Lieutenant Joseph A. Newell and Captain John S. Oliver, who were in uniform. Stevens was dressed in a baseball cap, scuffed cowboy boots, blue jeans, a faded corduroy shirt, and a red ski parka.

  " 'May I sit down?' " Oliver said, mockingly. "Why, certainly you can. I'm always grateful for your company.âť

  âśFuck you, Oliver," Stevens said matter-of-factly. He put the empty tray on an adjacent table, took off his parka, put that on the table, and then sat down.

  "What we have here, Jose," Oliver said, "is absolute proof of the theory that you can take the shitkicker out of the boonies, but you can't get the boonies out of the shitkicker."

  "What are you, Jose?" Stevens said, "the aide-de-camp to the aide-de-camp?âť

  âśIts name is Stevens," Oliver said. "I had to spend four years with the sonofabitch in college. âś

  âśWhat is that you're eating?" Stevens said, jabbing at Oliver's plate with his fork. "A breakfast steak? Are you putting on the dog or did you really do something energetic last night requiring a high-protein intake. . . such as getting laid? âś

  âśI don't know what he did, but when I looked in his room last night at half past eight, he was sound asleep, looking satisfied," Newell said.

  "Didn't anyone ever tell you, little man, that second lieutenants ,are to be seen and not heard?" Stevens said to Newell.

  "Hey! Layoff. He's a pal of mine," Oliver said.

  "No offense," Stevens said cheerily. "The reason I'm slumming, Johnny, sitting here in public with you and this talkative second lieutenant is that I figured you'd have the poop on what happened to Jack Dant.âť

  âśYou knew him?" Oliver asked in reply.

  Stevens nodded. "And so did you, at least sort of.âť

  âśWhat does that mean?âť

  âśWhen you were doing your first John Wayne walkathon, he did most of the looking for you," Stevens said.

  "What's a John Wayne walkathon?" Jose Newell asked.

  Stevens turned his face to Newell, held his index finger before his lips, and said, "Sssssh!âť

  âśI didn't know that," Oliver said.

  "He had the only Special Instrument Ticket around. They wouldn't let anybody else fly in that shit.âťA Special Instrument Flight Certificate was the highest of the several grades of certification of competency to fly aircraft on instruments (only). It authorized the holder to take off completely on his own discretion-that is, without regard to visibility and other flight-safety standards established for less-qualified pilots.

  "How did he hear about it? He wasn't in the l7Oth.âť

  âśIt was the 123rd," Stevens said. "I told him. He really laid his balls on the chopping block for you, Johnny."

  "Charley," Oliver said, visibly disturbed, "I never heard this until just now." Stevens looked at him sharply a moment, saw that he was telling the truth, and then, smiling, turned to Newell.

  âśJohn Wayne here ran out of gas in an Otter and had to sit down in the boonies, in Charlie's backyard," he said. In the military phonetic alphabet, the abbreviation for Viet Cong (VC) was spoken "Victor Charlie.âť

  âśWe thought maybe he'd walked away from it-God is supposed to take care of fools and drunks, and Johnny is thus dual qualified-but we couldn't go look for him, because of the weather. Our battalion commander was very interested in his safety record-âť

  âśThat's not fair, Charley," Oliver protested.

  Stevens put his finger in front of his lips and went "Sssshh!" again.

  "We were just about to divvy up his personal gear between us, when Jack Dant comes out of the soup in his Mohawk with all that lovely terrain avoidance radar in it and says that since Oliver can't find his way out of a men's room by himself, maybe we should go looking for him-âť

  âśYou said 'we,' " Oliver interrupted him. "You said, 'We should go looking for him.' You were with him, weren't you, Charley?âť

  âśYou ever hear the phrase, Jose?" Stevens asked, ignoring him," 'like something the dog dragged in'? When the Air Force went in with a Jolly Green Giant to fetch him, John Wayne here looked like something -no self-respecting dog would drag anywhere.âť

  âśAnswer the goddamned question," Oliver said. "Yeah, I went along and worked the radios," Stevens said.

  "What the hell, you owed me fifty bucks and pair of sunglasses.âť

  âśThank you, Charley," Oliver said.

  "The point of all these war stories is that I know for a fact that Jack Dant was one hell of a pilot. So what happened to him? âś

  âśThe tail rotor came off," Oliver said. "They went straight down from twenty-five hundred feet.âť

  âś 'The tail rotor came off'?" Stevens parroted incredulously.

  "The entire rotor head was gone," Newell said. "It was nowhere near the fuselage.âť

  âśYou were there?" Stevens asked. "What are you, some kind of engineer? Expert?âť

  âśHe was with me," Oliver said. "Jose's Texas National Guard. He's got a civilian ticket and a lot of hours. Now he's going through flight school" Stevens considered that a moment, grunted, then asked, "They just sat there and waited for it?âť

  âśThey got on the radio, called a Mayday, reported what had happened.âť

  âśAnd then boom, so long?" Oliver nodded.

  "I went by his house last night," Stevens said. "I heard a very unpleasant story about two flight surgeons-âť

  âśOut of school, Charley, it's true.âť

  âśGoddamn! Have you seen her?âť

  âśI went there with the Bellmons, but we didn't get to see her. Allan Wood's widow-âť

  âśThe Ice Princess," Stevens interrupted.

  âśIs that what you call her?âť

  âśI wrote her a letter when Allan went in," Stevens said.

  "No reply. So when I came home, I went to see her. Allan and I were pretty close, and I was. . . Anyway, I figured maybe she didn't get the letter and went to see her. And she made it plain in about two minutes that she was not interested in auld langsyne or anything connected with the Army, or, in particular, with Army Aviators. Thank you for calling, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.