James Salter - Burning the Days

She was at last willing, unresistant, we were face to face, she gleamed in the dark. That hotel is gone now, though the act remains, the unremarkable act which cut life in two, one part falling to the ground and the other stretching gloriously ahead. The great, thronged palaces with their countless windows, the Astor, McAlpin, the Pennsylvania, their dangerous lobbies and corridors along which we uneasily strolled, their rooms with twin beds and ominous black phones, became our stage. There was, that year, a then-irresistible novel called Shore Leave with a pair of Navy wings on its blue jacket, and written in a confident style. It became, at my insistence, our text. The name of its nihilist hero, gaunt and faithless, was Crewson. He had flown at Midway and in other battles. The blood baths. Would he remember as an old man, the author, Frederic Wakeman, wrote, rising at three in the morning on the third of June? The briefing at four and soon afterwards reports of enemy aircraft inbound. And then on the dense rippled sea, the Kaga, steaming upwind at a brisk thirty knots, the coming-out-of-the-ether feeling when he split his flaps and made an eighty-degree dive for the red circle on her flight deck … the first hit … — all this was indelible. Those bombs going home freed him forever from the trivial and mundane. His society girlfriend was only one of the women who trotted after him like colts.

We shared this book as a Bible might be shared by a devout couple. It was a hymn to the illicit. Emboldened by it we acted as though we were part of the war. On the inside cover she inscribed it to me, the Crewson of her past. There were many things in it that she could have written herself, she continued, and then, as if granting to a beloved child possession of a favorite plaything, Keep this book with you, my dearest. If things had turned out differently, it managed to say; if we had, in the way of all failed lovers, only met years sooner or later …

I knew the handwriting well. I had received many letters, for a long time one each morning after class, special delivery, scented, covered with stamps, letters I read sitting with my dress coat unzipped, a torn undershirt beneath it, the insignia of the upper-classman. I thought of her constantly, in the stuporous hours of code class, legs jammed against the table in desire; listening to songs on the phonograph; hearing classmates on Saturday evenings walking to the hop. The question was simple, was I going to marry her? for marriage was heavy in the air, graduation, the chapel, former roommates and young women they more or less knew passing beneath the flash of crossed sabers and down the steps into a waiting automobile and what was surely life. I was unreliable but she would steady me. I was in uniform but that would be over before long and I would come back to the city to lead an appropriate life. All that was muted but clear. She was only eighteen but sure in her instinct. Besides, she coolly admitted, there was someone else in the picture who had been a year behind me in prep school and was now an enlisted man in Sioux Falls, less glamorous but more sensible, with not even the vaguest idea of staying in the army an hour longer than necessary. His name had been tossed lightheartedly back and forth between us until the point when I received a fateful telegram: Yes or no, it demanded.

Whatever indecisive form my answer took, she responded by doing what she had threatened. She married him just as I was graduating. For a moment it seemed like another bit of teasing, with the impermanence things had in those days. Nevertheless I felt an unexpected, sweet-sad pang. Later I saw it clearly, as I had not then. I had turned my back on three things, marriage, money, and the past, never really to face them wholeheartedly again.

I try to summon her and all the letters with their girlish script, the pleas and admonitions, gossip of friends, endearments, exaggeration. Sometimes it seems that all that has happened since is less vital than what we were, and the luster of her eighteen years, the tawdriness I wanted to immerse them in, to stain their glory and make them immortal. She was, for a season, mine, and I was drunk with it. I had the hussarlike luxury of being bored by the genuine thing, and though places have vanished, where she stands is where she has always stood and I carefully place her story where it belongs, before the rest.

—

In the fall of 1944, amid the battles on the continent, came word of the death of the unrivaled goat, Benny Mills. He was killed in action in Belgium, a company commander. Beneath a shroud his body had lain in the square of a small town; people had placed flowers around it, and his men, one by one, saluted as they passed through and left him, like Sir John Moore at Corunna, alone with his glory. He had fallen and in that act been preserved, made untarnishable. He had not married. He had left no one.

His death was one of many and sped away quickly, like an oar swirl. I could never imitate him, I knew, or be like him. He was part of a great dynamic of which I, in a useless way, was also part, and classmates, women, his men, all had more reason to remember him than I, but it may have been for some of them as it was for me: he represented the flawless and was the first of that category to disappear.

—

We bought officer’s uniforms from military clothiers who came on weekends that next spring and set up tables and racks in the gymnasium. The pleasure of examining and choosing clothes and various pieces of decoration — should pilot’s wings be embroidered in handsome silver thread or merely be a metal version, was it worthwhile to order one or two handmade “green” shirts, was the hat to be Bancroft or Luxembourg — all this was savored. Luxembourg, thought to be the very finest, was in fact two tailor brothers surrounded by walls of signed photographs in their New York offices. The pair of them were to the army as Brooks Brothers was to Yale.

Like young priests or brides, immaculately dressed, filled with vision, pride, and barely any knowledge, we would go forth. The army would care for us. We had little idea of how careers were fashioned or generals made. Napoleon, I remembered, when he no longer knew personally all those recommended for promotion, would jot next to a strange name on the list three words: “Is he lucky?” And of course I would be.

Eventually you meet generals, walk beside them, talk, and slowly, as with beautiful women, manage to hold your eyes on them. A few years after graduation I became aide to a general who was moody, dashing, and had a scar like a knife-slash across the bridge of his nose, made by German flak. He was from Savannah, Georgia, class of 1928, fearsome reputation and the face of a leading man. On his starched collar was a single, slightly antique star.

He gave me an initial piece of advice: “As long as you’re my aide,” he said pleasantly, “you can get away with murder. You’ll be able to make bird colonels jump when you speak. They’ll think you’re speaking for me, but as soon as it’s over, when I’m not around anymore”—he made a gesture near his neck—“they’ll slit your throat,” he told me.

His name was Robert Travis and the stories preceded him, mostly of his toughness. The very first one I heard was of his simply reaching out and tearing the stripes off a sergeant who had failed to salute him. LeMay himself was said to have been his copilot before the war.

The poker he liked was five-card draw, open on anything, guts, as he said. One night his first bet was forty dollars, which was a lot then. We were flying over the Pacific. The game was table stakes. I looked at my cards; I had two tens.

There were five of us playing. All but one called. The dealer asked, “How many?”

“I’ll play these,” Travis said.