Back in the barracks he learned that Red Rogers and Ben Taylor had been transferred up to the Twenty-seventh and already had flown up to report for duty. That information, combined with the effects of his spree the night before, conspired to send him down into a state of depression again.
Pretty damned soon, he reflected, the war would be over and unless a fellow did something quick he never would get back into a show. The debacle of that early summer afternoon ate at the back of his mind and made him so self-conscious he imagined that every time he passed an officer he was being regarded with pity, that everybody was saying behind their hands, “There is the bird who got Luf killed.”
Already he had grown cynical and had isolated himself and had but one prayer, a chance to vindicate himself.
He never could vindicate himself back here. He had to get up front to do that. And that seemed as impossible as spanning the poles.
“God, why can’t I get a chance?” he muttered. “I can fly rings around some of those birds up there. Damn! Damn! Damn!”
He reasoned that when a fellow was all torn up inside about anything he ought to go up. A man should go up when he got his thinking apparatus hung together.
So in spite of the admonitions of the field staff, Dorman went up. He took a DH4 but it was a short flight. He circled the field a couple of times and thought about jumping over to Romorantin to see his old buddy, Al Peebles, who was in the Fifth A.S. Regiment. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it; and he decided to put the bus down and go down and get tight all over again.
Coming down he was swept by a ghastly emotion; in an instant he realized he had forgotten all he ever knew of flying, and he had no feel. He remembered his arms and fingers like wood... and he bounced twice and then the D.H. swung over in a perfect somersault and pitched him out.
He picked himself up as the men rushed out to salvage the wreck, and walked off to the barracks. He was sore and at the point of open rebellion and had decided the way to settle the war was with his fists. The first man who said anything to him he didn’t like was going to get busted in the jaw.
Ten minutes later an orderly came into the room and told him Major Carew, who was the commanding officer, wanted to see him.
Dorman whirled around, his face livid and for a moment the orderly thought he was going to be smashed.
“You present my compliments to the major and tell him to go to hell!” he cried to the orderly.
The orderly stood his ground, shook his head and bit his lip.
Chick Lancaster, who was one of the mob waiting for assignment to combat, came in and said, “Wait a minute, orderly.” He turned to Dorman and said, “Listen, you’ve lost your mind! Go on and see the C.O.”
Dorman’s face got red but he held himself in check. Lancaster was the only man in the post he had ever said anything to. He was a rough and tumble battler from Indiana and always spoke his mind.
“To hell with the C.O.! Orderly, tell Major Carew if he’s got anything to say to me he can come here and say it. To hell with everybody!”
Lancaster grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him around.
“Look, George. You’re only making things worse. You can’t buck the whole damned army.”
Dorman wiggled his shoulder to free himself and squared around and doubled up his fists. His eyes were blazing.
“Chick, you keep outta this! I can handle it.” He looked at the orderly and said, “Go on, allez!”
Lancaster blocked the exit and his voice got hard. “Orderly, go on back and tell him the lieutenant is on his way.”
Dorman said, “I’m gonna bust—”
Lancaster moved over and turned sideways. His right fist was drawn back.
“You’re going to get some sense in your head if I have to punch it in there.”
The orderly went out.
Dorman’s lips quivered and he yanked off his helmet. A trickle of blood came down from his forehead.
Lancaster said, “You’re hurt, George. Fix yourself up and go on.”
Dorman put his hand up and it came away red. “You go to hell,” he said coldly and went over to the washstand. He soaked a towel and patted it against the cut and in a moment it had stopped bleeding. Lancaster came over and stood beside him without saying anything.
Dorman carefully turned his head and saw the understanding in Lancaster’s face. Remorse engulfed him and his eyes filled with tears. He massaged them out with his doubled fists and got sore all over again. He turned away and muttered.
“—damn! —damn!”
He drove his doubled fists into his hips and his body convulsed with impotent rage. Lancaster followed him over to the table and sat down beside him.
“Listen, get a grip on yourself for God’s sake. You’re in bad enough as it is now. Unless you check up you’ll never get back to the front.”
“I know it,” he said. He lifted his eyes and said. “Chick, I guess I’m just a damned fool.”
Lancaster laughed and said, “Forget it. Beat it over to see Carew and when you get back I’ve got a spot of Three-Star stuck away.”
Dorman tried to smile.
“Okay,” he said.
He expected the major to raise hell, but he was wrong. Max Carew had not won his majority for nothing. He knew men. He was to prove that later when he emerged from combat work as one of the finest squadron leaders of the war. He could be, and was sometimes, hardboiled; but to him each man represented an individual case and was not to be treated by a general formula.
“Sit down,” he said to Dorman, when the latter had come over to the office.
Dorman sat down, a little surprised, and waited for the blow.
Carew turned his chair around and said, “Boy, you’ve got a lot of things in your mind that you’ve got to get out.” He paused and waited, but Dorman didn’t say anything so he went on. “You’re sore at everybody. You’ve been sore for a month. Well, that’s not getting you anywhere.”
Dorman glared at him but still didn’t say anything.
“What the hell’s the matter with your head, Lieutenant?”
“What do you mean, Major?”
“Just that. You’re thinking crooked.”
“Maybe I am,” Dorman said shortly. “Maybe I am. But you know what the trouble is as well as I do.”
Major Carew smiled and nodded.
“Yes, I think I do.” He leaned over and folded his arms on his desk. “Well, Dorman, you aren’t the only one who wants to get up and see a little action. You don’t suppose this is pleasant for me to sit back here in a graveyard, do you? Not by a damn sight! But that’s the way of the army.
“There’s a war on and the generals know what they want. Most men can stand it—but sometimes there’s one who hasn’t got the guts to face the music.”
Dorman twisted in his seat and rubbed his hands together.
“Now, listen, Major—”
“You listen, Dorman!” the Major cut in swiftly. “I’ve seen men like you before. You had a chance to make good and muffed it and now you’re taking it out on the whole damned army. You’re a sorehead and a disorganizer. You’ve got the whole post up in arms. You’re a quitter if I ever saw one.”
The Major looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, saw the big fellow biting his lips to control himself and went on. “You don’t ever expect to get back up there by sulking, do you? Well, you haven’t a chance.” He hitched his chair closer and laid his hand on Dorman’s knee. It was rather an awkward gesture.
“You’re not the only man in this war, you know. There’s a lot of us over here and we’ve all got a job to do. The fellow who doesn’t do it is passing the buck to somebody else.”
Dorman looked at him in mingled rage and humiliation. Something in the major’s voice got under his skin. He lowered his head to avoid the major’s eyes and said,