The Fly Boys Read Free Page B

which was no big sacrifice considering
     the quality of front-line chow. There wasn’t much he could do about his height, except grin and bear it when he had to fold
     up like a pocketknife to tuck into his fighter. Fortunately, his concentration was such that he forgot about his discomfort
     and everything else except waxing the enemy once he was in the air.
    He had always been big for his age. His size had always made him seem older than he really was. These days, so did his profession.
     His blond hair was cropped to brush-cut length, but worn unwaxed so that it fell forward, flat on his skull. His skin had
     been burnished by the sun, and the long hours spent scanning the sky from his cockpit had etched squint lines on either side
     of his hawk’s nose, at the corners of his narrow slash of mouth, and around his brown eyes.
    Steve snuck a glance at Wohl. The major had picked up a pencil and was jotting notes to himself as he sat with the telephone
     receiver cradled between his shoulder and ear. The beige enamel paint had begun to blister and peel off Wohl’s desk due to
     the tropical heat and humidity. The major was absently picking at the marred finish, stripping off paint curls and dropping
     them to the muddy plywood floor as he continued talking to Captain Mader.
    “Set the projector up. I’ll want to view Lieutenant Gold’s film. I’ll be over in a few minutes.” He hung up and glared at
     Steve. “Mader says there’s nothing wrong with your radio.”
    Steve resisted the urge to shrug. “I guess it got better, Major.” He allowed himself a ghost of a smile, just to test the
     waters.
    “You think this is funny, Lieutenant?”
    The ghost of a smile took a powder. “No, sir.”
    The major jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the Remington prints. “You-all think that you’re one of them ornery Old
     West gunslicks who didn’t need nobody? You think you can charm your way out of the fact that you disobeyed my orders in a
     combat situation?”
    “May I speak frankly, sir?”
    “Go ahead.” Wohl’s eyes were just about bulging out of his head, he was so mad. He was scratching at his desk as if it itched.
    “What I think, sir, is that since I shot down four Japs, the major ought to be congratulating me and putting me in for a promotion
     and maybe a medal, not chewing out my ass,” Steve concluded, remembering at the last possible instant to add, “sir.”
    If flashing eyes were machine guns, Wohl would have been scoring direct hits, blowing Steve out of existence. But then the
     major closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. As he exhaled it seemed that the anger and tension went out of
     him. He gestured toward a straight-back chair against the wall. “Drag that over and sit down, old son.”
    Steve did as he was told.
    “You want a drink?” Wohl asked, opening a desk drawer.
    “Anytime, sir.”
    Wohl brought out a bottle of gin and two glasses. Steve’s heart sank. He was a bourbon man, and failing that, rye whiskey
     or scotch. He hated gin, especially straight up, but there was no way he was going to further antagonize the major by refusing
     what he figured was a peace offering.
    Wohl poured two fingers into each glass, and slid one across the desk toward Steve.
    “Thank you, sir,” Steve said. As Wohl knocked back his drink, Steve, forcing himself not to gag on the smell of juniper berries,
     flung the gin against the back of his throat and swallowed it down, shuddering.
    “Another?” Wohl asked, reaching for the bottle.
    “No, sir! Thank you, sir.”
    The major nodded and put the bottle away. “Now then, let me run through this with you from the beginning. First off, you-all
     did shoot down four Jap fighters. Your gun camera film confirms this, and I eyeballed you making that one incredible shot
     when that bandit crossed your flight path. Congratulations on some fine shooting and flying. Just about the finest I’ve ever
     seen.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Steve