Cassada Read Free Page A

double, into the back pocket of his pants.
    â€œMight turn out to be a real whoop-de-do,” he commented to Isbell.
    There was a drab gasthaus on the long road of trees that led to town. Dunning had gotten to know the woman who ran it well enough to slap her familiarly on the behind and tell her to bring whatever it was, a prima schnitzel or some good, none of that cheap stuff, wine. He knew a little German. He could say something tasted like rat poison, which always brought a laugh.
    A cheer went up when he and Isbell entered. Everybody was there or had better be, even the armament and communications officers. All four flight commanders, not sitting together but sownamong the rest, Wickenden, Grace, Reeves, and Cunati, who had false front teeth, their history unknown. Isbell sat down beside Harlan who was debunking something, as usual, in this case the war which had been over for a decade. He didn’t know that much about it, he admitted, picking at the wet label on a bottle, but he knew one thing: we should never of got involved. It was never our business. His pale blue eyes watched what his fingers were doing. It didn’t do us a bit of good.
    Grace had a different view: it was all part of a bigger fight.
    â€œWhat bigger fight?”
    â€œAgainst communism. The Germans were really helping us.”
    â€œYou mean they were on our side?”
    â€œIn a way.”
    â€œThat’s news to me.”
    â€œA lot of things are,” Grace said.
    â€œOh, yeah?” Harlan turned his head. “What do you say, Captain?”
    â€œI think it’s about even.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, even?”
    â€œNeither of you know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œAw, don’t try to flatter us.”
    â€œGee, that’s a big word for you,” Grace said.
    It was Friday night, the night for drinking. It would go on for hours. Isbell sat, not really listening, his gaze moving over the crowd, casual but searching, he was not sure for what. True comrades perhaps. Even friends.
    Reeves, he thought, looking at him, unknowable, really. Wickenden. He hesitated there. Wickenden’s round head, hair cut close, shaved like a Russian’s, the scalp gleaming through. He was talking about something, the new velocities, the tremendous shocking power. Even a gut shot would bring them down now—shatter their nervous system. He didn’t approve of that. His mouth tightened.Too much power, it took the sport out of it. You ought to have to hit them in a spot the size of a plum. Right in the brainpan. The heart. Or lose them. “Give the beast a chance.”
    It was a cold night. Across the dim field Isbell could make out some kind of animal moving. Then he could see it, a hirsch that hadn’t presented a very good target, drifting through the black woods, its fine head and antlers. There was a splintering frost. The hirsch was stepping slim-legged through it, unsteadily but with a matchless grace, stopping every couple of yards while his stomach filled with blood. The sides of his body were wet with it, heaving gently, and something was behind him, trailing him in the dark. This way! Something was crashing through stiff branches. The hirsch, feeling for the one time ever a terrible dizziness, begins to move faster, in panic. The twigs are exploding. Over here! This way!
    Who among them, then, Isbell wondered, someone nearly overlooked, silent and reflective, or another, arguing and intense? Godchaux—he was what it was all about. Grace. The best pilots. Across the room, wedged between men he did not know, was the new one. Fair hair, eyebrows almost joined in the middle. Never trust a man when they come together, they say. As good a rule as any, and the new man, taking it all in, just beginning to select a few idols, Isbell could have picked them out himself, the false glitter.
    He emptied his glass and raised a finger for another. It was curious. There were times when he could