kid. Idiotic... But why not? Stuck in this dark, grubby,
hole. He hadn't shaved for three days and his beard itched. His
flying suit was so filthy he could have planted rice in it. He
smelled like a goat and his teeth felt furry. Above all, he was weak,
hungry and genuinely frightened.
Why had he been singled out to be put through this
terrifying, nerve-jangling, miserable wringer? There was nothing he
had done to God, or anyone else, that merited this kind of
punishment. Oh sure, he could have gone to church more. But he wasn't
an atheist. Or even an agnostic. He did believe in God. And he
subscribed to the Ten Commandments. And the Golden Rule.
Foolishly, he began to enumerate his sins and the
shortcomings of his character. He rehearsed adolescent escapades
and the pecadillos of young manhood, assuring himself at each step
along the way that he had never done anything to deserve this kind of
retribution.
Even as a husband he hadn't strayed too far. His
fondness for gambling seldom exceeded quarter-limit poker, his
craving for Manhattans seldom got him into trouble, he paid bills on
time and he worked hard at his job. He liked the military
life—especially the flying. When he had graduated as a smart-assed
second lieutenant in the Army Air Corps in 1945, he had boasted that
he would stay in for five years or five stars, whichever came first.
He had later lowered his sights to staying in and merely becoming the
best goddamn navigator in the Air Force. He may not have become the
best, but he felt he was right up among them. And evidently the Air
Force felt the same way, for his hard work and sense of
professionalism had merited him not only a regular commission,
but commendable progression through the ranks.
It certainly wasn't a question of other women.
Unlike some of the younger officers, he just didn't see any sense in
going out for a hot dog when he had filet mignon waiting for him at
home. He had tried to be a good husband over the years, and it hadn't
been difficult. Gwen had more than done her share to make the
marriage work. He still found her as charming and desirable as she
had been when they were first married. There had been no children,
but that apart, theirs had been a near-perfect marriage.
Gwen. God, how he missed her! How he would love
to...
Hambleton! You bloody, weeping bastard! Get hold
of yourself!
With an effort he pulled himself upright. He would
do something constructive. He sat on the edge of his hole and
stretched his muscles. Then he dug out his first-aid kit, opened it,
and stripped the mosquito netting gauntlet from his left hand. He
took off the old bandage and inspected the wound. It was a nasty gash
that should have had stitches, but at least it wasn't infected. He
put on a fresh bandage and taped it up.
He replaced the contents of the first-aid kit and
tucked it away in its niche in his hole. In the faintly gathering
light he could see the early-morning fog rolling across the paddies
toward him. It was going to be damp. Probably damp enough to deposit
some dew on the leaves. Maybe even a few raindrops. He rummaged in
his hole and produced the rubber map. After spreading it out on the
leaves of a nearby bush, he got his empty plastic water container and
put it where it would be handy. Then he crawled back into his hole,
covered himself up, shut his eyes, and murmured a short prayer.
Colonel John Walker was heavyset, brusque,
efficient, and the Commander of the 355th TAC Fighter
Wing—Hambleton's outfit. At the moment he was with several of his
staff officers who were in the wing briefing room at the Korat Royal
Thai Air Force Base. The men were gathered around a wall-sized
terrain map of the area in which Hambleton had been shot down.
As the officers talked, Major Sam Piccard, the
wing intelligence officer, walked into the briefing room.
Carrying a classified intelligence folder, he approached Walker. "May
I have a moment, Colonel?" he asked, removing the stem of an
old, stained
hole. He hadn't shaved for three days and his beard itched. His
flying suit was so filthy he could have planted rice in it. He
smelled like a goat and his teeth felt furry. Above all, he was weak,
hungry and genuinely frightened.
Why had he been singled out to be put through this
terrifying, nerve-jangling, miserable wringer? There was nothing he
had done to God, or anyone else, that merited this kind of
punishment. Oh sure, he could have gone to church more. But he wasn't
an atheist. Or even an agnostic. He did believe in God. And he
subscribed to the Ten Commandments. And the Golden Rule.
Foolishly, he began to enumerate his sins and the
shortcomings of his character. He rehearsed adolescent escapades
and the pecadillos of young manhood, assuring himself at each step
along the way that he had never done anything to deserve this kind of
retribution.
Even as a husband he hadn't strayed too far. His
fondness for gambling seldom exceeded quarter-limit poker, his
craving for Manhattans seldom got him into trouble, he paid bills on
time and he worked hard at his job. He liked the military
life—especially the flying. When he had graduated as a smart-assed
second lieutenant in the Army Air Corps in 1945, he had boasted that
he would stay in for five years or five stars, whichever came first.
He had later lowered his sights to staying in and merely becoming the
best goddamn navigator in the Air Force. He may not have become the
best, but he felt he was right up among them. And evidently the Air
Force felt the same way, for his hard work and sense of
professionalism had merited him not only a regular commission,
but commendable progression through the ranks.
It certainly wasn't a question of other women.
Unlike some of the younger officers, he just didn't see any sense in
going out for a hot dog when he had filet mignon waiting for him at
home. He had tried to be a good husband over the years, and it hadn't
been difficult. Gwen had more than done her share to make the
marriage work. He still found her as charming and desirable as she
had been when they were first married. There had been no children,
but that apart, theirs had been a near-perfect marriage.
Gwen. God, how he missed her! How he would love
to...
Hambleton! You bloody, weeping bastard! Get hold
of yourself!
With an effort he pulled himself upright. He would
do something constructive. He sat on the edge of his hole and
stretched his muscles. Then he dug out his first-aid kit, opened it,
and stripped the mosquito netting gauntlet from his left hand. He
took off the old bandage and inspected the wound. It was a nasty gash
that should have had stitches, but at least it wasn't infected. He
put on a fresh bandage and taped it up.
He replaced the contents of the first-aid kit and
tucked it away in its niche in his hole. In the faintly gathering
light he could see the early-morning fog rolling across the paddies
toward him. It was going to be damp. Probably damp enough to deposit
some dew on the leaves. Maybe even a few raindrops. He rummaged in
his hole and produced the rubber map. After spreading it out on the
leaves of a nearby bush, he got his empty plastic water container and
put it where it would be handy. Then he crawled back into his hole,
covered himself up, shut his eyes, and murmured a short prayer.
Colonel John Walker was heavyset, brusque,
efficient, and the Commander of the 355th TAC Fighter
Wing—Hambleton's outfit. At the moment he was with several of his
staff officers who were in the wing briefing room at the Korat Royal
Thai Air Force Base. The men were gathered around a wall-sized
terrain map of the area in which Hambleton had been shot down.
As the officers talked, Major Sam Piccard, the
wing intelligence officer, walked into the briefing room.
Carrying a classified intelligence folder, he approached Walker. "May
I have a moment, Colonel?" he asked, removing the stem of an
old, stained
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