Cassada Read Free

together. Godchaux now had almost a hundred hours more.
    â€œWhy is that?” Isbell said.
    â€œHe’s in Grace’s flight. Grace is like Pine. You know that.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Isbell said.
    At midday, silvery and slow, the courier floated down the final approach and then skimmed for a long time near the ground getting ready to touch. Nose pointed high, it taxied in. Phipps went to meet it. He stood off to one side and watched it swing around, the grass quivering behind and pebble shooting off the concrete. When the engines died he walked up and waited for the door to open. There was mail, spare parts, and one passenger, a second lieutenant wearing an overcoat. His baggage was handed down. It turned out he was joining the squadron. “This is the 44th, right?”
    â€œYeah, this is it. Well, you’re lucky.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œNothing,” Phipps said. “It’s just what they told me.”
    The new man’s name was Cassada. He was Phipps’s height with hair a little fairer and combed back, Anglo style. Phipps helped him carry his bags while being careful not to be too responsive to questions. Cassada was looking around as they walked. Were these their planes, he wanted to know? Were pilots assigned a plane? Were their names painted on them? Phipps answered yes.
    â€œI’ll take you over to meet Captain Isbell,” he said.
    â€œIs he the squadron commander?”
    â€œWho, Captain Isbell? No, he’s ops.”
    â€œOh,” Cassada said.
    He was just out of flying school but he’d served as an enlisted man for two years before. He didn’t look that old.
    In the mess they found both the major and Isbell. Phipps presented the new man.
    â€œCassada,” the major repeated as if remembering the name.
    â€œYes, sir.” There were unfamiliar faces all around.
    â€œThat’s a pretty famous name,” Dunning said. “You don’t happen to have anyone in your family who’s been in the service?”
    â€œJust my uncle, sir.”
    Dunning stopped chewing. “Your uncle? That’s not the general, by any chance?”
    â€œNo, sir. He was only a private.”
    â€œYou’re no relation to the general?”
    â€œNo, sir. That’s QUE, I think. My name is spelled CASS.”
    â€œCASS.”
    â€œCassada.”
    Dunning resumed eating. “Did you just get in?”
    â€œHe just got in on the courier,” Phipps said.
    â€œI was talking to Lieutenant Cassada, here.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHave you had your lunch?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œGo ahead through the line and then come on back,” Dunning said.
    While Cassada was eating, Dunning asked him a number of questions, where he’d gone to flying school, how much time he had, where he was from, but in fact he listened carefully to only one or two of the answers. He was telling Cassada what an outstanding squadron he had joined, picking his teeth as he spoke. He seemed unobservant. He relied on strong instinct, deciding right off if a man could cut it or not. In the case of Cassada who had not said a lot, perhaps a dozen words, Dunning was not much impressed. Heliked second lieutenants who reminded him of himself when he was one. Roaring. Full of hell, like Baysinger who had a wide gap between his front teeth and one night in the club, just as drunk as Dunning, got into a wrestling match with him and broke his leg. Baysinger had long since completed his tour and was gone, as were the crutches that Dunning hobbled around on for two months afterwards.

Dunning had on a wool shirt, a green tie, and a tweed jacket. Shaking some tonic on his hair, he combed it down. A damp towel hung at the foot of the bed. He took it and cleaned his shoes. He looked like a farmer, a corn-fed farmer on a Saturday night. As a final touch he stuffed a khaki handkerchief in his breast pocket and a thick wallet, folded