James Salter - The Hunters

“I want Pell grounded,” he said.

The silence, which had been noticeable, became paramount when the colonel did not immediately reply. It was the silence of the arena.

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“Ground him,” Cleve repeated. “I want to see that he doesn’t fly any more.”

“A man with five victories, and you want me to ground him? What’s wrong with you? He ought to be a flight commander.”

“Why not give him the group, Colonel?”

“That’s enough, Connell.”

“He killed his leader today. If he’d shot him down personally, it wouldn’t have been any different. It was his fault that Daughters was killed.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Pell insisted. “He wouldn’t break.”

“You’re a liar. You never told him to.”

The colonel suddenly jerked his head up and looked around at the rows of open faces. He wheeled toward them.

“All right,” he shouted, scattering them with motions of his hands, “go on about your business, all of you. Clear out of here.”

They began to filter away. He stood watching until they were gone. Then he turned to DeLeo and Pell.

“Get to debriefing. They’re waiting for your report.”

“I have a right to hear what he says,” Pell announced.

“Don’t worry about that,” the colonel ordered. “Just get going.”

Pell saluted, and then, belatedly, DeLeo. When they were some distance off, and only he, Cleve, and Moncavage were left standing by the wing of Pell’s ship, the colonel whirled to confront Cleve with unexpected ferocity.

“What are you trying to do, Connell? Wreck the group?”

“No, sir. I’m trying to uphold it.”

“With crazy accusations in front of every son of a bitch and his brother?”

“I was told to speak in front of them,” Cleve said flatly.

“First of all,” the colonel continued with a rush, not listening, “you weren’t even on the mission—why, I don’t know. I only know that there’s nothing unusual about it. You never seem to be on the missions that get into fights. That’s the first thing. Secondly, for some reason, you and that Italian, whatever his name is, have got it in for Pell, but if it weren’t for him, and nobody else, your flight would be on its ass. Nobody else in it is doing a thing except him. I hate to lose a pilot and a plane, probably more than anybody else around here, but I don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll find out what went on; and if I think there was anything that requires action on my part, I’ll take it. I don’t have to be told by some captain how to run my wing or who to ground.”

“How long have you known me, Colonel?”

“I don’t care if I’ve known you for fifty years.”

“Just listen to me for a minute.”

“No! That’s what you can’t seem to understand. You listen to me. I don’t listen to you.”

“On whatever reputation…” Cleve began.

“At ease! Are you too stupid to understand that?”

Cleve did not reply. He was looking at a stranger, complete and hostile. Whatever the mutual past had given them was suddenly gone. It was a sickening feeling to realize that, like having the very ground taken from beneath his feet. He did not remember later whether anything more had been said, but only that he had been left standing alone beside Pell’s airplane, the fury slowly subsiding and leaving him stranded more and more on the outcropping of complete loneliness and desolation. He did not know what to do. He could not even think clearly about it. In the middle of the ramp he was left by himself. He would have given anything to be gone, years away. It would be a long time, though, before he was finished here and could begin putting it behind him. He had days ahead that seemed like mountain ranges.

Pell faced the colonels in the debriefing room. He was earnest and attentive. He looked directly at them when he answered their questions. It didn’t take long. After about ten minutes he was finished explaining, and they all left to drive up to the club. It was closed at that hour, but Moncavage located the club officer and borrowed the keys.

They walked in together. It was empty and cool, like a kitchen at midnight. They sat down at the bar. Moncavage found the right key for the liquor cabinet and withdrew a bottle.

“There’re some glasses right in back of you,” Imil said. Moncavage placed three out. Imil picked the cork from the bottle and poured them about one quarter full.

“You probably need this,” he said to Pell, “and it won’t hurt me.”

Moncavage was trying to find some water to mix with his drink.

“A big day. Here’s to you, Doctor,” Imil said, lifting his glass. He and Pell drank, swallowing hurriedly.

“Phew,” Imil breathed. He set his teeth against each other. “Still a little early in the morning.”

Pell laughed and wiped his mouth.

“I must be getting old,” Imil said. “How about you, Monk?” Moncavage was just taking a sip from his glass.

“It isn’t orange juice,” he said.

“Drink it.”

They sat around, drinking slowly. The sun came through the windows, making squares of brilliance on the rough wood flooring. Other than that, the room was dim. The walls were indistinct in shadow. Pell could feel the liquor moving through him. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast. Imil took the bottle and poured him another one, taking a little himself.

“Two MIGs in one mission,” he said. “That’s something.”

“I got a couple on one mission, myself,” Moncavage said.

“You did, didn’t you?” Imil agreed. “Well, you ought to form a club.”

Pell grinned.

“That’s the way to do it, though,” Imil went on. “Christ, it’s all most of us can manage just to get one. You boys that deal in pairs. I don’t know.”

He inspected his glass closely.

“I’ll tell you something, though,” he said to Pell. “As long as you live, no matter what happens, you’ll never forget this.”

“No, sir.”

“The day you made ace.”

Pell emptied his glass to that. He could feel a general looseness coming on.

“Colonel,” he began sturdily.

“What?”

“You’re right. I’ll never forget it.”

“Hell, no.”

“What about you?”

“Forget my fifth kill?”

“Yeah,” Pell nodded, almost as if a difficult point had been resolved.

“The first time or the second? Ah, it doesn’t make any difference. I remember both of them. Especially that first, though. How old are you, Doctor?”

“Twenty-five.” Pell spread the fingers of one hand out slowly on the bar as if consulting them.

“Twenty-five.”

Pell nodded.

“Do you know how old I was when I got my fifth?” Imil asked.

“No.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Just a kid,” Pell said, smiling.

Imil laughed. When drinking, he seemed bigger than ever. He licked his lips.

“I remember it like yesterday. England. Now there was a war—right, Monk?”

“I was in Italy.”

“Tough.” He drained his glass and watched as Pell tried to fill them all evenly again. “I remember when I came down that day. What a feeling! The whole world wasn’t big enough for me. You know what I mean.”

“Right,” Pell agreed impulsively.

“I had this girl. Know what she said?”

“No.”

“‘Be a bloody ace tonight, that’s all.’” He held his fist and forearm up and laughed.

Pell shrugged happily.

“It’s what everybody thinks,” he muttered.

The sound of engines being run up filled the room slowly. They stared toward the window. A mission was leaving. They could see the ships marshaled on the end of the runway.

“Look at that,” Imil said.

They watched intently. The first ships started to go, and the air in the room trembled.