The Fly Boys by T. E. Cruise

burn it.”
    “Just hold on there.”
    Steve turned around. “But Cappy—”
    “But nothing, Steve,” Major Sam “Cappy” Fitzpatrick mumbled sleepily.
    He was in his thirties and short, but broad-shouldered and muscular. He had curly black hair, a mustache, and dark eyes. Just
     now those eyes were bloodshot, and he needed a shave. His olive-drab T-shirt had large, dark sweat rings under the arms, and
     his khaki shorts were grimy. He was wearing a cotton, peaked bill cap displaying his gold oak leaf, and a revolver slung on
     his hip in a tan leather, gold-tooled western-style rig that matched his cowboy boots.
    “Cappy, let’s get that thing down!” Steve insisted.
    “I told him not to get so upset,” Crawford announced smugly.
    “Everybody shut up and let me think,” Cappy sighed. He looked around, bellowing, “Where’s my coffee!”
    “Here, sir!” The corporal who Steve had sent to fetch Cappy was hurrying toward the major, carrying a tin mug.
    Cappy took the mug, sipped at it, and winced. “I wouldn’t half mind this goddamned war if I could at least have a cup of decent
     coffee. Who’s got a smoke?”
    Crawford leapt forward, a pack of Luckys appearing like magic in his hand. Cappy plucked a cigarette out of the pack and allowed
     Crawford to light it for him.
    “That’s better,” Cappy said to no one in particular. He took another sip of coffee. “Now then, Steve, what’s got you so hot
     under the collar?”
    “I don’t like being insulted like this,” Steve replied. “I’m fed up with taking shit from these Marines.”
    “Did you ever stop to think that by blowing your stack you’re giving the Marines exactly what they want?” Cappy asked.
    “I hear what you’re saying. They want a reaction and I’m supplying it.” Steve shrugged. “I guess I don’t care. It’s all just
     getting to me. I’m fed up with not getting the chance to prove to these webfoots that they’re wrong about Army Air. And I’m
     fed up with not being able to shoot at anything other than a towed target. We were sent here to underscore the fact these
     sailors and Marines aren’t single-handedly winning the war in the Pacific. Well, if Army Air is gonna be in on it, we’d better
     start doing our part.”
    “Soon as
I
think we’re ready,” Cappy declared. “I’m the one who makes that decision, and I’m not about to let a bunch of wisecracking
     Marines goad me into making that decision prematurely.”
    “You’re making it sound like we’re a green squadron,” Steve complained.
    “We
are
green,” Cappy said.
    “Every one of us is an ace!” Steve exploded. “Hell, some of us are double or triple aces—”
    “But with the exception of you and me, none of us have flown together,” Cappy pointed out. “And all of us have gotten our
     experience in different airplanes. I’m not risking this unit in combat until every one of us is up to speed with his Jug and
     with the other men.”
    “Yes, sir.” Steve sighed.
    Cappy looked at him and grinned. “Don’t worry, Steve. Don’t be so impatient. Trust me, this squadron is going to wax Tojo
     like he ain’t never been waxed before. Okay?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And don’t worry so much about what other people think,” Cappy added. “You’re an ace. You should have proven yourself to
yourself
by now.”
    “Okay, Cappy.” Steve felt uncomfortable having Cappy say stuff like that to him with other guys listening.
    Cappy must have sensed his embarrassment. “Good.” He nodded and then abruptly turned away to study the tarp. “Vigilant Virgins
     they called us, huh?” he chuckled heartily. “I kind of like it.”
    “That insult?” Steve asked in disbelief.
    Cappy nodded. “You know what? I believe that we’re gonna leave that up.”
    “You can’t be serious.” Steve was appalled.
    “I’m never serious, kiddo, but I always mean what I say. Vigilant Virgins … Vee Vee … the Vee Vees—No!” Cappy snapped his
     fingers.