"I understand that," Major Pruitt answered. "Well, it just so happens the Kaiser's come through for us. Wright is building a copy of the Albatros two-decker; a German cargo submarine finally made it across the Atlantic with plans and with a complete disassembled aeroplane. The orders detach you to train on the new machine."
"That's-bully, sir," Jonathan Moss breathed. "Can we really fight the limeys in this new bus?"
"Everybody seems to think so," the squadron leader answered. "The copied Albatros isn't quite as fast as the Pup, but it'll climb quicker and it's just about as maneuverable. And we'll have a hell of a lot more of them than the limeys and Canucks will have Pups."
"Good-we'll make 'em have kittens, then," Moss said. When sober, he was sobersided. He wasn't sobersided now.
Hardshell Pruitt also grinned. "Go pack your bags, Captain. Pack the undowithoutables and don't worry about anything else. I want you back here at 2130, ready to move out for London. Here are your written orders."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Moss looked at the pocket watch he wore strapped to his wrist. Like a lot of fliers, he'd started doing that because of the difficulty of groping for a watch while wearing a bulky flight suit. Learning at a glance what time it was had proved so convenient, he wore the watch on a strap all the time now. "See you in forty-five minutes, sir."
He seemed to float several feet above the muddy ground as he made his way back to the tent he shared with Dudley and with Phil Eaker and Thad Krazewski, who'd taken the place of Orville Thornley, who'd taken the place of Tom Innis. A match got a kerosene lantern going. The space around his cot was as full of junk as more than a year's settling in and an easygoing view of military regulations would allow.
One green-gray canvas duffel bag didn't seem enough. He wondered if he could lay hands on a White truck, or maybe two. He shrugged. He'd manage, one way or another. And whatever he left behind wouldn't go to waste. Some would, as Major Pruitt had said, follow him wherever he went. The other fellows in the flight were welcome to the rest.
He heard Eaker and Krazewski coming. Eaker said, "Jonathan'll be glad we sweet-talked the cook out of a corned-beef sandwich for him. I've never seen anybody as keen for the stuff as he is."
The two young fliers came into the tent and stared. Grinning, Moss said, "I will be glad for the sandwich, boys. It'll give me something to eat while they take me wherever I'm supposed to go."
"Sir?" they said together, twin expressions of blank surprise on their faces.
Moss wanted to tell them everything. The whiskey in him almost set his mouth working ahead of his brain. He checked himself, though. Saying too much-saying anything, really-wouldn't be fair to Dud Dudley, who had to stay a while longer because of his botched paperwork.
What Moss did end up saying was, "They're shipping me out. I'm going into training on a new aeroplane."
"That's wonderful, sir," they exclaimed, again in unison. Krazewski clapped his hands together. With his wide cheekbones, blue, blue eyes, and shock of wheat-blond hair, he would have made a gorgeous woman. He made a hell of a handsome man, and the Canucks and limeys hadn't managed to kill him yet. He asked, "Does Lieutenant Dudley know, sir?"
That's Captain Dudley, Moss thought, but Dud doesn't know it yet. "I'll tell him as soon as I finish packing," Moss said. He didn't say anything about all the stuff he wouldn't be able to pack. His tentmates would go through it soon enough, almost as if he'd died.
He had intended to head for the officers' lounge as soon as the duffel bag was full. That didn't happen, because Dud Dudley came in when he was trying to stuff a tin of shaving soap into a bag already full to the point of seam-splitting. "A fine day to you, Captain Moss!" he exclaimed in a voice to which whiskey gave only part of the glee.
He's heard, Jonathan realized. Hardshell must have decided he couldn't keep it a secret. "A fine day to you, Captain Dudley!" he returned. The two men solemnly-well, not so solemnly-shook hands while Eaker and Krazewski gaped all over again.
"Too damn bad we're going to different aerodromes to train," Dudley said, which reconfirmed Moss' guess. The flight leader slapped him on the back. "I'll miss you, you son of a bitch. We've got to look each other up if we both come through this stinking war in one piece." He scrawled his name and address on a scrap of paper. "Here. This is me."
Moss found his own scrap and borrowed Dudley's pen. "And this is me. I'll miss you, too, Dud. And I'll miss these two sorry ragamuffins-" At that, the pilots who would stay behind gave him a pair of raspberries. He shook hands with both of them, too, then slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. He mimed collapsing under the weight, which wasn't far from being true, and tramped back toward Major Pruitt's tent.
A Ford was waiting there for him, the motor running. The driver took the duffel, gave him a reproachful stare at its weight, and tossed it into the automobile. "Hop in, sir," he said. "Off to London."
The drive was less than a delight. The Ford's headlamps were taped so they gave out only a little light; the enemy's aeroplanes would shoot up anything that moved at night. The road would have been bad even had the driver been able to spot all the potholes. Not spotting them meant he and Moss got to fix several punctures along the way. They didn't do better than ten miles an hour, which made a hundred-mile journey seem to take forever.
Dawn was breaking when they finally reached the aerodrome. No one seemed to be expecting Moss, which, after the time he'd had getting there, didn't surprise him at all. "Well," a sergeant said doubtfully, "I guess we'll put you up in Tent 27. Basler!" A private appeared, as if by magic. "Take Captain Moss to Tent 27. He'll fit in there, one way or another." The noncom's face bore a strange sort of smile.
Moss, who hadn't managed to doze in the automobile, was too worn to care what a sergeant thought. The private led him to a green-gray tent distinguishable only by the number stenciled on its side. "Here you are, sir."
"Thanks." Moss went inside. Sure enough, there was a cot with no belongings nearby. The three officers in the tent, who were readying themselves for the day, looked him over. One of them, a tall, thin, good-looking fellow, exclaimed, "Jonathan!"
"Percy!" Moss said. "Percy Stone!" Then he burst out laughing. "Now I know why that billeting sergeant said I belonged here. Moss and Stone, like the old days." He pumped Stone's hand. "Jesus, it's good to see you in one piece, chum."
"It's good to be in one piece again," Stone said. He'd been Moss' photographic observer when Moss was still flying two-seaters instead of fighting scouts, and a Canuck had badly wounded him. He pointed to the pilot's insigne on his chest. "You see I've got both wings now."
"Yeah," Moss said enthusiastically. "Between us, we're going to show the Canucks a thing or two." Percy Stone nodded. They shook hands again.
Every time Abner Dowling walked into the Tennessee farmhouse where General Custer was staying these days, he braced for trouble. Since the First Army had basically stopped moving forward these days, Custer's accommodations hadn't shifted lately, either. That meant Libbie Custer had come down from Kentucky to stay with her husband.
It also meant Custer had to stop paying such avid attention to the pretty, young mulatto housekeeper he'd hired before Libbie came down. The wench, whose name was Cornelia, kept right on cooking and cleaning. Dowling didn't know whether she'd done anything more than that before. He was sure Custer had wanted her to do more, though, and had hoped to convince her to do more. Libbie was sure of that, too, which made the farmhouse into a sort of front of its own.