Whip Read Free

dispersal of the still-gathering assembly.
    The jeep came to a halt in a cloud of its own swirling dust. Seated by the driver was an enormous man. Not simply big, but fat, almost corpulent, and no one needed to ask to understand this was a civilian rushed into uniform for whatever skills the army wanted so badly it would overlook his physical grossness. He sat quietly, one thick leg on the edge of the jeep, his khakis stained with sweat and coated with various layers of dust and oil and grease from airplanes. His hands were dirty. Beneath his nails was a grime that could not be removed for months, compounded as it was from the lubrication of warplanes and his own hard work. Finally he rose, so that he could rest his massive forearms on the windshield runner of the vehicle, surveying the line-up of bombers, until he halted his gaze on the man who commanded the Death's Head Brigade. For a long moment no one spoke. Then the fat man, whose colonel's eagles were barely visible against the stains of his uniform, spoke slowly. His deep voice carried surprisingly strong through the air.
    "Captain," he addressed his words to Whip Russel, "you are a goddamned disgrace."
    No one moved.
    "Captain, you are out of uniform."
    Which Whip Russel certainly was, since he wore only boots and faded shorts and a .45
    automatic strapped to his right side. His body was a strangely lined mixture of dark tan and white stripes from bandages worn in the sun while he recovered from wounds he refused to allow to keep him out of his cockpit. Above the heavy combat boots his legs were bandy-muscular, almost ludicrous. The faded shorts could have come from any decade preceding the present. His stomach was braided muscle, he carried a three-day growth of beard and his hair was unkempt.
    No question of the reaction to the colonel's words. The men watching the scene showed disbelief and open contempt for the observation. Jesus, here they were in this freaked-out desert of northern Australia, with the Japs just over the horizon kicking the shit out of everybody save this one outfit, and all this fat bastard of a colonel can do is complain about how this little guy dresses. Jesus, no one in the whole outfit had a complete uniform!
    Whip Russel strolled lazily from beneath the wing of his bomber to the jeep. He stopped, dust scuffling about his boots, and he looked up at Colonel Louis R. Goodman, Commanding Officer of the 112th Maintenance Depot, that took in Townsville and Garbutt Field and a dozen other airstrips scattered across the parched Australian countryside.
    "And you, Colonel," drawled Whip, "are one fat son of a bitch."
    Men gawked. And shook their heads, and waited for the fireworks.
    Colonel Louis R. Goodman grinned hugely. "That I am, Whip," he boomed jovially, and the two old friends who'd not seen one another in nearly two years clasped hands. "Get in, you little bastard. I'll buy you a beer."

3
    "You live in a lousy neighborhood, you know that?" Whip gestured lazily from the back seat of the jeep, leaning forward as they drove from the flight line.
    "Well, I can't hardly argue with you," Goodman replied, his gaze following Whip's gesture. "It's all pretty obvious."
    It was. About them, near and far, were dispersed aircraft and teams of mechanics and air crews in what was virtually raw desert country. Scrub trees showed haphazardly, augmented by low, stunted plants unfamiliar to Whip. "What I don't understand," he said to the colonel, "is why people this far back from the shooting have to live like this."
    His reference was to the "permanent" frayed tents and other makeshift dwellings.
    "Because we ain't got nothing better," Goodman grunted. "Hell, Whip, look around you.
    See those canvas sheets over there? We don't have anything with which to build what might even pass for a hangar. When we tear down an engine we build a tent around it, otherwise the dust would get into everything and the engine would tear itself apart the first time it flew."