W. Griffin: The shooters

Master Randolph Richardson IV was out of the Buick and up the lawn before either General Wilson or General Crenshaw could brief him on the best approach to the problems that were about to develop. Young Randy was holding something black and about the size of a shoe in his hand.

"Oh, shit!" General Wilson said.

"My thoughts exactly," General Crenshaw said. "But I'll deal with him."

"He's my son-in-law," General Wilson said.

"But I write the officer's efficiency report on the officer who writes his," General Crenshaw said.

"Point taken," General Wilson said. "You bring your animal and I'll bring the dead birds."

General Crenshaw opened the rear door and picked up a small animal more or less identical to the one Randolph Richardson IV had rushed to the door holding.

Generals Wilson and Crenshaw got to the door just as Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III opened it. His wife stood behind him.

"I made twenty takeoffs and landings," young Randy announced, then held up the soft black object in his hands for inspection. "And look at this!"

"You did what?" Mrs. Richardson asked.

"What is that?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.

"His name is Goliath," Randy answered. "General Crenshaw's got his brother, David."

"You did what?" Mrs. Richardson asked again.

"I made twenty takeoffs and landings in a Ryan PT-22," her son answered.

"That isn't one of those huge dogs Colonel Castillo had, is it?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.

"Not yet, Richardson," General Crenshaw said. "Right now Goliath and David are what they call puppies."

"Max had eight," Randy said. "Or his…the girl dog did. Colonel Castillo gave General Crenshaw one and he gave me one."

"How nice of him," Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said, carefully choosing his words. "But I'm not sure we'll be able to keep it, moving around the way we do."

"Nonsense," Generals Crenshaw and Wilson said, almost in unison.

"Every boy should have a dog," General Crenshaw added.

"Teaches him character," General Wilson agreed.

"A dog that size?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.

"And Colonel Castillo gave one to a girl he knows in Argentina," Randy said, "a girl my age he says he wants me to meet some time."

"I would like to know what he means by twenty takeoffs and landings," Mrs. Richardson said. "Not by himself, certainly."

"What kind of an airplane?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.

"A Ryan PT-22, open-cockpit tail dragger," Randy announced with a pilot's elan. "Hundred-and-sixty-horse Kinner five-cylinder radial. Cruises at about one thirty-five."

"Colonel Castillo has such an airplane?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired. "I don't think I've ever seen one."

"Uncle Fernando does," Randy said, softly stroking Goliath.

"You remember Fernando, Beth?" her father said. "Charley's cousin?"

She smiled somewhat wanly.

"You're calling this man 'Uncle Fernando'?" she said to her son.

"If he lets me fly his airplane," Randy replied matter-of-factly, "I'll call him anything he wants me to call him!"

"And what do you call Colonel Castillo?" his mother asked.

"He said that he's not my uncle so I could call him either 'sir' or 'Charley.'"

Beth exchanged a long look with her father.

"So this 'Uncle Fernando' took you for a ride in his airplane, did he?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired.

"No," Randy explained somewhat impatiently. "Colonel Castillo taught me how to fly Uncle Fernando's PT-22. I made twenty takeoffs and landings. I told you."

"And you found nothing wrong with this, Dad?" Mrs. Richardson asked.

"Not a thing," he said. "I've always thought of the Castillos as family. Haven't you?"