Glory Boys. Harry Bingham

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СКАЧАТЬ superb piece of writing, syndicated, so it seemed, to every newspaper in America. And the name for the squadron had stuck. Abe was never just Captain Rockwell any more, he was always Captain Rockwell of the Glory Boys. The men in the squadron had been intensely proud and had painted the title on the nose and tail of every plane. Abe dated his true and abiding hatred of the war from the moment that article first appeared.

      Brad went on digging out items from his collection. Abe rubbed his face, in deep discomfort. He did his best to change the subject.

      ‘I hope it’s not all me.’

      ‘No, I’ve got everyone here. Everyone. I mean,’ he added hurriedly, ‘you were always my favourite. You and…’

      ‘Me and Rickenbacker. Good choice. Rickenbacker was the best.’

      Abe felt better now that the kid’s interest was deflected onto other subjects, but one photo of himself as a young man was still visible on the top of the pile. He was wearing a lieutenant’s uniform. He’d only just been commissioned, hadn’t yet shot down a single plane, hadn’t yet experienced a minute in combat. The photo was monochrome, of course, but somehow you could see the startling blue of the young man’s eyes, just as startling as if a piece of sky had fallen down and got lodged there. The young man looked out with confidence and eagerness, as though knowing the place that history had written for him. Abe looked sharply away, as though allergic to the sight. When Brad happened to unfold a newspaper cutting that fell over the photo and covered it, Abe pulled his glance away with an almost visceral feeling of relief.

      Sal stood up to make coffee. Abe wanted to help, but she said, ‘You stay where you are. I don’t need eyes to find the blamed coffee pot.’ Meantime, Brad had dug out something that amused Abe. A folded movie poster advertised ‘America’s favourite flying ace’, Willard Thornton.

      ‘So he’s the favourite,’ laughed Abe. ‘Hear that, Brad? America’s favourite! What’s all this about Rockwell and Rickenbacker?’

      ‘Oh, him! I don’t really… But say, Captain, he was ninety-first squadron as well. You must have –’

      ‘Sure, I knew Willie Thornton, all right.’

      ‘Wow! … I saw one of his movies once. In Jacksonville. I used to quite like him, but the picture was dumb. He shot down about eight machines in one fight.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never watched ’em.’ He smiled. Will Thornton had arrived in the squadron much cockier than his flying skills warranted. But Abe had seen through the bluster. He’d put time into Thornton’s training and the effort had paid off. Abe had come to trust his ability in a fight. If the young man had been able to get his instinctive selfishness under control, he’d have a fine future ahead of him.

      ‘You keep in touch with him?’

      ‘Not now, no, these movie actors, I doubt if they’d have time for an old beat-up flier like me… Say, though, if you wanted me to ask him to sign that movie poster for you, I expect he’d be happy to oblige.’

      ‘Really, Captain? Gee whizz, I…’ he trailed off, caught between his excitement at the idea and his desire to make sure that Abe knew he didn’t have a rival for his admiration.

      Abe took the poster. ‘I’ll mail it to him with a note. No promises, mind, but I expect he’ll help out.’

      Sal came to the table with the coffee. Abe forced the subject away from the war, back to farming and the price of corn. After twenty minutes, he pushed his chair back. ‘Say, Sal, thanks for dinner. It was real good. Nice to eat home-cooked food once in a while.’

      ‘You couldn’t be more welcome, Captain.’

      ‘Brad, I’m gonna be leaving town tomorrow. The takeoff could be a mite tricky and I wouldn’t want to carry a passenger, but I’ve heard there’s a stretch of beach just south of Brunswick with room to land.’

      ‘Oh, sure, Captain. A real good beach. Flat and wide. Not too soft neither.’

      ‘Well, what d’you say you meet me there tomorrow? Say around noon, if you can get there. We’ll do a little flying together before I head off south.’

      ‘Oh boy! Mom, can I…?’

      ‘Oh no, Captain, you don’t want to do that. Brad doesn’t need to –’

      ‘D’you know what, ma’am? I think as a matter of fact he does.’

      And that was that. Abe fixed the date. Poll was ready. Meantime, Hennessey had had the trees felled, the road levelled, any obstacles removed. Main Street, Independence looked almost like a real runway. Abe walked slowly back to the hotel. On the four wooden steps leading up to the hotel’s verandah, there was a man visible only as a bunch of shadows and a red-tipped cigarette.

      ‘Evening, Hen,’ said Abe.

      ‘Well, good evening to you. You’re leaving tomorrow I guess?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Enjoy your dinner?’

      ‘You mean, did Sal Lundmark’s blindness make me change my mind?’

      ‘Either way.’

      ‘I enjoyed my dinner, Hen. But as for changing my mind, I told you already.’

      The storekeeper pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stared at the tip. Then he flicked it, still glowing, out into the street.

      ‘A man’s gotta try, though.’

      ‘Sure.’ Abe hesitated. He liked the storekeeper. The man had guts and honesty: characteristics which Abe prized above anything. ‘If things work out, Hen, I’m going to be doing a little flying in these parts. I’m hoping to make a little money flying between Florida and the islands.’

      ‘There money in that?’

      ‘Don’t know. Not much. Any case, I aim to find out.’

      ‘Yeah, well, good luck.’

      ‘Maybe I’ll get in touch again sometime. If things work out. Any case, if you ever get a postcard from your Auntie Poll, you don’t forget who sent it.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      ‘Goodnight, Hen.’

      ‘Goodnight, Captain.’

      ‘And thanks. I’m only sorry I couldn’t help.’

PART TWO

       Lift

       Heavier-than-air flight sounds impossible – and it is. People get confused because they think that planes must weigh a lot. But that’s not true. Not true at all.

       On the ground, of course, aircraft weigh something. But on the ground, they aren’t really airplanes, they’re just big chunks of metal with wings. СКАЧАТЬ