James Salter - The Hunters

Somebody came running by and shouted to him. He turned his head. He stopped walking as the words registered. Had he heard about the reccy flight?

“What about it?”

The man called over his shoulder, going away.

“They ran into MIGs. They got two.”

Unconsciously, he looked up at the empty sky for a moment, as if in supplication, as the sudden, fierce anguish hit him. Everything he had suffered in the past came flooding back, stronger than ever. He was afraid to learn the rest. It would have done no good to ask, anyway. The man had run on. He had just reached the operations building when he heard them a few minutes later. He looked up, searching. Then he saw them. They were about to enter on initial. He watched incredulously. It was like seeing a man without a head approaching. There were only three ships.

He walked out into the parking area and stood there to wait for them. He could not tell anything from where he was as they flew their pattern, and further, the walls of sandbags and lines of airplanes blocked his view of the runway. Quite a few people were moving out, independently, into the parking area to observe, too. A long period of time seemed to have passed since they had landed. At last he heard the faint whistle characteristic of engines idling. It grew louder. He watched. The first ship swung evenly into the open area, followed closely by the other two. He recognized their helmets as they went by. It was DeLeo in the first airplane. Pettibone in the second. In the third was Pell. Cleve began running. He reached DeLeo’s ship just as it came to a stop, and jumped up on the wing. There was a whining deflation as DeLeo shut down his engine and slowly, not looking at Cleve although he knew he was there, removed his helmet and saddled it on the windshield.

“What happened?” Cleve asked.

“We ran into Casey. Christ! I’ve never…”

“Where?”

“I don’t know—coming back. I wouldn’t have believed it. I swear to God,” DeLeo breathed.

“What about Daughters?”

“He got hit.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He stood up on the seat, bending over to fumble with the parachute buckles. “He went straight in.” His knees were shaking.

“Did you see it?”

DeLeo threw his leg over the side of the ship and stepped down onto the wing. He steadied himself there. A small group of crewmen and some officers were gathering below.

“Yes, I saw him. Anybody within ten miles saw him. He was on fire. You couldn’t miss him.”

“Are you sure he didn’t get out?”

“No, we would have seen it,” DeLeo said. He slid himself down from the wing and made his way through the thin crowd, ignoring the questioners, toward the revetment where Pell was parked. Cleve walked beside him.

“Who got the MIGs, Bert?”

“Pell.”

Cleve stopped walking abruptly.

“Wait,” he said. “Did you see that, too?”

“I saw one of them hit.”

“How did it happen? I want to know.”

They stood in the middle of the ramp, looking at the pierced steel planking underfoot, and sometimes at each other. DeLeo told it haltingly. They had completed their reconnaissance and were headed south when the MIGs hit them. It was Casey Jones and five others, a complete surprise. Nobody had seen them until they were close in, firing. Nobody had heard any warning. Then, in the break, they were separated.

“All the stories, you know?” DeLeo said. “They’re nothing. Not even a beginning. Jesus! No matter what I did. I even gave up, I swear. I sat there waiting. He was behind me the whole time. I almost tore the wings off trying to lose him. It didn’t matter. He stayed there. I just can’t tell you. The funny thing, he never fired. At least I never saw it. He just stayed in back of me. I don’t know how I got away. He could have had me a dozen times. Right from the start, but he never fired. I guess it was his guns. It must have been. All the time Pettibone was screaming to turn tighter. I don’t know where the hell he was. I never saw him. A lot of help, that kid. I’d have done better alone. At the end I heard Pell calling to Daughters to bail out and Pettibone asking where everybody was. I finally caught sight of this smoke. Daughters. His ship was on fire, streaming fuel. I saw it hit. Then another one, closer. Christ! I was sure it was Pettibone. It turned out to be one of them.”

There was a crowd around Pell’s ship, and in the midst of it, as they drew closer, they could see him gesturing. Somebody asked DeLeo if he had gotten any. He did not answer. He pushed through. Then Pell saw them and began shaking his head apologetically.

“It happened so quick,” Pell said, “he didn’t have a chance. Two of them just popped up between us. They started hitting him right away. I got both of them finally, but it was too late.”

“Why didn’t you call a break?” DeLeo asked.

“I did.”

“Like hell you did. I didn’t hear it.”

“I called him two or three times,” Pell protested.

“You’re lying.”

“You couldn’t have been looking around much, if two MIGs got in on him like that,” Cleve said.

“We were in a fight. When you’re going around with them, there can always be more of them behind you somewhere.”

“Never mind the fundamentals.”

“I’m just trying to explain,” Pell shrugged.

“You were supposed to be clearing him.”

“I was. I called the break as soon as I saw them,” Pell replied, “but he didn’t break. What would you have done? I started shooting to get them off his tail.”

“I would have gotten him back,” Cleve said.

“Oh, come off it. I feel bad enough as it is. What good does this do?”

“No good,” Cleve said, “but you’re through, Pell. You’ve gone your own way for the last time. There won’t be another. I promise you that.”

Pell was not apparently disturbed. Instead, he seemed almost relieved to hear it. The open concern fell away, and on his face appeared the old, sly confidence.

“You weren’t even there,” he said. “How do you know what happened? You were in bed. You’re always off somewhere when there’s a fight, in Tokyo or someplace.”

“Am I?”

It was as if some capsule had been squeezed open within him and the contents shot into his blood like venom. He stepped unthinkingly forward, unbalanced, but quickly, his hands feeling weightless as he moved. His swing did not hit Pell squarely, but glanced off the side of the neck. A surge of bodies closed in upon them immediately, crowding them so that he could not move his arms, one of which was caught shoulder high. There was shouting and confusion as he was forced back clumsily.

“What in hell is going on here?”

It was Colonel Imil, pushing brusquely through the group. He glanced around and then turned on Cleve.

“All right. What is it? What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” He looked toward Pell. “Haven’t you had enough fighting for one day?”

Pell smiled.

“You got two more, I hear,” the colonel said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was lost?”

“Daughters.”

“How did it happen?”

“He just got hit,” Pell began. “I did everything I could…”

“Colonel,” Cleve said, his breath making him pause, “I’d like to talk to you alone for a minute.”

“What about?”

“I’d rather tell you alone.”

“What’s bothering you, Cleve? Say it out in the open. What are you afraid of?”

The color came to Cleve’s face. He could feel his mouth hardening despite himself. The hands of the crowd had released him, and he stood by himself, conscious of the surrounding faces now withdrawn slightly to a respectful distance, but silent and absorbing. He abandoned the search for proper words.