pointed to the small jets just approaching the base operations building. A crowd of people streamed from the control tower and ran toward the jets. “Didn’t you see them turn? Or how fast they flew?”
“No son of mine is going to fly a fighter,” Hank said in a low voice.
Rod lifted his chin. “Why not?”
“Because they’re too dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you remember those people killed at Farnborough? That fighter pilot was a bloody showoff!”
“It wasn’t the pilot’s fault, it was a defective plane!” Rod felt his heart race.
“Fighters have only one engine and if it goes out, the pilot is as good as dead. It’s an unsafe, stupid way to fly. And besides, fighter pilots are arrogant.”
“Why even be a pilot if all you’re going to do is to fly straight and level?” Rod said. “That’s boring! You might as well be a bus driver!”
Hank reddened. “I said, fighters aren’t safe. This discussion is closed.”
Rod balled his fists, standing his ground. “A bomber can’t maneuver like a fighter!”
“And you’ll never fly them if you know what’s good for you!” Hank said. He eased off the hood of the car and used his cane to walk over to the door.
Sliding onto the seat, he engaged the mechanism which allowed him to use his good leg to drive; he started the engine. “Damned fighter pilots think they own the world,” he said. A minute passed and Rod made no effort to get into the car. Hank rapped on the window, “Get in the car, laddie. Now!”
Not replying, Rod started jogging the 15 miles for home, toward San Bernardino.…
O O O
Standing rigidly at attention outside the barracks, Rod watched Captain Justice out of the corner of his eye as the officer looked over the line of cadet candidates. Justice walked up and down the ranks, tugging at a belt, pulling the rim of a cap low over a candidate’s eyes, tucking in the back of a shirt, ensuring shoulders were pushed back and down, picking lint off their khaki shirts, straightening ties, and most importantly, taking his index finger and pushing their chins as deep into their chests as possible.
In the distance the methodical beat of a bass drum thumped away, keeping time to a military march. The music seemed to come from somewhere around the corner.
In spite of Captain Justice’s comments, Rod thought they looked impressive; they had spent the last two hours falling in, lining up, and falling back out again. The next, and most important, test of their limited training was yet to come: if the candidates could march together, he knew that they wouldn’t be the motherless scum that Captain Justice had somehow thought that they had evolved from.
Looking as if his eyes might bulge from his socket, Captain Justice strutted up and down the line of candidates, inspecting minute details of their uniform. As the sound of a bugle blasted from the speaker horn, Justice shouted, “Bravo Squadron, atten’hut!”
Rod pulled his chin in even tighter. He had thought they had already been at attention, so he didn’t know if Justice’s command was more of a reaction to the bugle, or if the man really thought that the candidates could pull themselves up any straighter.
“Remember that sound, gentlemen,” Justice said as he walked up and down the line. “That’s known as First Call. In five minutes another bugle will announce Assembly, and the Wing will be at attention, waiting further orders. For the next year you gentlemen will be in place before First Call, and no later, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Bravo squadron answered as one.
“The time between First Call and Assembly will be used to ensure that all Basics are present and to correct any gross discrepancies in your appearance. Prior to First Call, you will stand at attention and study your book of Basic Cadet Knowledge. Your mission in life is to memorize this book. You will perfectly recite all quotations and facts. You will be judged by how well you know this
“No son of mine is going to fly a fighter,” Hank said in a low voice.
Rod lifted his chin. “Why not?”
“Because they’re too dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you remember those people killed at Farnborough? That fighter pilot was a bloody showoff!”
“It wasn’t the pilot’s fault, it was a defective plane!” Rod felt his heart race.
“Fighters have only one engine and if it goes out, the pilot is as good as dead. It’s an unsafe, stupid way to fly. And besides, fighter pilots are arrogant.”
“Why even be a pilot if all you’re going to do is to fly straight and level?” Rod said. “That’s boring! You might as well be a bus driver!”
Hank reddened. “I said, fighters aren’t safe. This discussion is closed.”
Rod balled his fists, standing his ground. “A bomber can’t maneuver like a fighter!”
“And you’ll never fly them if you know what’s good for you!” Hank said. He eased off the hood of the car and used his cane to walk over to the door.
Sliding onto the seat, he engaged the mechanism which allowed him to use his good leg to drive; he started the engine. “Damned fighter pilots think they own the world,” he said. A minute passed and Rod made no effort to get into the car. Hank rapped on the window, “Get in the car, laddie. Now!”
Not replying, Rod started jogging the 15 miles for home, toward San Bernardino.…
O O O
Standing rigidly at attention outside the barracks, Rod watched Captain Justice out of the corner of his eye as the officer looked over the line of cadet candidates. Justice walked up and down the ranks, tugging at a belt, pulling the rim of a cap low over a candidate’s eyes, tucking in the back of a shirt, ensuring shoulders were pushed back and down, picking lint off their khaki shirts, straightening ties, and most importantly, taking his index finger and pushing their chins as deep into their chests as possible.
In the distance the methodical beat of a bass drum thumped away, keeping time to a military march. The music seemed to come from somewhere around the corner.
In spite of Captain Justice’s comments, Rod thought they looked impressive; they had spent the last two hours falling in, lining up, and falling back out again. The next, and most important, test of their limited training was yet to come: if the candidates could march together, he knew that they wouldn’t be the motherless scum that Captain Justice had somehow thought that they had evolved from.
Looking as if his eyes might bulge from his socket, Captain Justice strutted up and down the line of candidates, inspecting minute details of their uniform. As the sound of a bugle blasted from the speaker horn, Justice shouted, “Bravo Squadron, atten’hut!”
Rod pulled his chin in even tighter. He had thought they had already been at attention, so he didn’t know if Justice’s command was more of a reaction to the bugle, or if the man really thought that the candidates could pull themselves up any straighter.
“Remember that sound, gentlemen,” Justice said as he walked up and down the line. “That’s known as First Call. In five minutes another bugle will announce Assembly, and the Wing will be at attention, waiting further orders. For the next year you gentlemen will be in place before First Call, and no later, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Bravo squadron answered as one.
“The time between First Call and Assembly will be used to ensure that all Basics are present and to correct any gross discrepancies in your appearance. Prior to First Call, you will stand at attention and study your book of Basic Cadet Knowledge. Your mission in life is to memorize this book. You will perfectly recite all quotations and facts. You will be judged by how well you know this
Similar Books
