The Fly Boys Read Free Page A

out.
    He was about to acknowledge the compliment when he remembered that his radio was supposed to be broken.
Next victim
, Steve thought, feeling evil. Just one more and he’d be a double ace.
    He looked around for a target, but the dogfight was over. All twelve P-38s were still flying, but the sky was cleared of Zeros.
     Oh well, being able to paint four “meatballs” on the side of his airplane was better than nothing, Steve thought. The honor
     of becoming a double ace would have to wait until next time.
    “Let’s go home,” Major Wohl said.
    Steve breathed a sigh of relief. The major didn’t sound too pissed. Maybe his cutting loose like he did was going to turn
     out to be okay.
    The flight back to Tobi passed quietly. Steve was one of the last to land. As he taxied his P-38 past the palms and sandbagged
     machine-gun emplacements, he saw Wohl talking to the operations officer, Captain Mader. As his plane approached the hangars,
     the two officers both paused in their conversation to look in Steve’s direction.
    Neither man was smiling. Steve guessed that the shit was going to hit the fan after all.
    Wohl went stalking off, and Mader was climbing up on Steve’s wing even before his props had stopped turning.
    “What kind of crazy stunt did you pull up there?” Mader demanded as Steve raised his canopy. “I’ve never seen Wohl so hot.”
     Mader was a pudgy, moon-faced man with light brown hair and military-issue wire-rimmed eyeglasses.
    “The major was just probably beside himself with joy,” Steve said. “I just waxed four Zeros.”
    “No shit? Congratulations, I guess,” Mader said reluctantly. “But whatever you did up there, Wohl ain’t too happy about it.
     I’m supposed to check out your radio and get your gun camera film developed. You’re to report to his office pronto.”
    Steve glumly nodded. “I’ll just change out of my flight suit.”
    The sunlight glinted off Mader’s specs as he shook his head. “The major said pronto, Lieutenant.”
    (Two)
    Steve Gold stood at rigid attention while Wohl, seated behind his desk, scowled at him. The major’s telephone rang. Wohl snatched
     up the receiver. “Hello? Yeah, Mader! What have you got?”
    Major Wohl’s office occupied the rear half of a plywood hut with a canvas roof. The walls were painted light green, and were
     taken up with filing cabinets, silhouette identification charts of enemy planes, and a large map of the Pacific theater of
     operations. On the wall behind Wohl’s beige metal desk was a grouping of framed reproductions of Frederic Remington prints:
     grizzled, bearded cowpokes were chasing Injuns across the prairie and otherwise generally having themselves a high old time
     back in the Old West. Steve wished he could join them. That son of a bitch noncom who sat out front shuffling papers for the
     major had kept Steve waiting while Wohl showered and changed and had himself a bite to eat. Now Steve, tired and hungry, was
     standing at attention in his sweat-soaked overalls, stinking of gas and cordite fumes, his .45 in its shoulder holster a chafing
     burden against his ribs, as the major continued talking on the phone.
    “Yes, Captain,” Wohl said. “I understand. Just as I thought! And what about the gun camera film?”
    The major was in his midthirties. He had pale blue eyes and thick brown hair which he wore in a waxed brush cut. His face
     was colored by the sun, except for where the rays had been blocked by his flight goggles. The pale circles were like a mask
     around his eyes and made him look like a raccoon.
    As the major listened to what Mader had to say, he glanced murderously at Steve, who was careful to keep his eyes front, studying
     his reflection in the Remington prints’ glass.
    Standing six feet tall and weighing one-seventy, Steve knew he was almost too big to fit into a fighter’s cramped cockpit.
     He kept his weight down—and kept himself strong —with calisthenics and by not eating much,