want?
“I understand you’re also an airplane driver.”
What are you doing, writing a book?
“Guilty.”
“Fighters?”
And also Lockheed 1049s. You are conversing, sir, with the current holder of the Trans-Pacific scheduled passenger service speed record.
“Corsairs.”
“I flew P-38s in War Two,” Fisher said. “Which twin-engine time I parlayed into a job with Eastern. Where I flew these. Which kept me out of fighters when they called me up.”
“Reservist?”
Dumb fucking question. If he was called up, he was in the reserve.
“Yeah. You?”
“Me, too. I was flying for Trans-Global.”
“Ten-forty-nines?”
“That’s all Trans-Global has.”
“Nice airplane.”
“Very nice.”
“You were shot down?”
Back to your fucking book, are we?
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t grab you for NATS,” Commander Fisher said. “Most of our guys are called-up airline pilots.”
“They didn’t.”
“I just called our ETA—one hour—to San Diego,” Fisher said. “It’s been a long haul.”
It’s been a fucking nightmare.
“It’s been a nightmare.”
“Walking down that aisle is tough,” Fisher said. “The amazing thing is, you don’t get complaints.”
Not from the drugged or the dead, I guess you don’t.
“A couple of hours out of Honolulu, I went to the head. I saw . . . the sheets. How many didn’t make it?”
“I counted four.”
“I guess the rest of us are lucky, huh?”
“From what I hear, you’re luckier than most. You were behind the enemy’s lines for three months, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re walking around. You look like you’re in pretty good condition?”
“Yeah. I’m in good condition.”
The way my commanding officer put it, with devastating honesty, Commander, is that I am a self-important sonofabitch whose delicate condition is my own goddamn fault. He went on to say that my childish behavior caused a lot of good people to put their necks out to save me from the consequences of my sophomoric showboating.
That should be me under one of those white sheets.
Commander Fisher put out his hand.
“I better get back up and drive the bus,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Major. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
[EIGHT]
NAVAL AIR STATION, SAN DIEGO SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 1740 25 OCTOBER 1950
As the C-54 taxied through the rain, Pick could see a line of ambulances and buses, and beside them a small army of medical personnel and a long line of poncho-covered gurneys.
The C-54 stopped on the tarmac before the passenger terminal, and when the cargo door opened, Pick saw that a forklift had been driven up to the aircraft. It held a platform, on which were four gurneys and eight Corpsmen in raincoats with Red Cross brassards.
The dead were off-loaded first. Four Corpsmen came onto the aircraft, went to one of the bodies, unfastened the litter, and carried it down the aisle to the door and the waiting gurneys. The body was gently moved from the litter to the gurney and covered with a poncho, but not before enough rain had fallen on the sheet to make it translucent.
Then the litter was carried back onto the aircraft, and a second body on its litter carried out to the gurneys waiting in the rain.
When all four gurneys had bodies, the forklift lowered the platform.
When it came back up, there were four Corpsmen, different ones, on it. The flight physician was now waiting for them. They exchanged a few words, then the flight physician turned to Pick.
“Okay, Major, you’re next,” he said. “Do you need help to go out there and get on a gurney?”
“I don’t need a gurney.”
“It’s policy.”
“Fuck your policy.”
“You made it all the way here without giving anybody any trouble. Please don’t start now.”
“I’m not going to get on a fucking gurney.”
“You’re going to get on it, Major. The only question is whether you do it now or after I sedate you.”
“Major,” one of the Corpsmen said, “with respect. It’s raining out here. Please.”
Pick stood up, walked through the door, and climbed onto one of the gurneys. One of the Corpsmen laid a poncho over him.
Three more NPs were brought off the aircraft. They were not transferred to the gurneys. Rather, their litters were laid on top of the gurneys and then they were strapped to it.
A Corpsman appeared with two lengths of canvas webbing.
“Let me get this around you, and we’re on our way,” he said.
“You’re going to strap me to this fucking thing?”
“That’s the SOP,” the Corpsman said. “Take it easy. The sooner we get to the hospital, the sooner we can take it off.”
Fuck it.
What do I care?
What do I care about anything?
When the straps were in place, Pick could not move his arms and wipe the rain from his exposed face.
So what the fuck?
The forklift lowered the platform, and the gurneys were