The Kink

When an Airman Grows Too Old to Fly
By Thomson Burtis
Finley strode to the desk of the operations clerk in the flying office and inquired with a sunny Irish smile—
“Well, what old hulk do I haul around the field for flying time today?”
The grizzled old sergeant’s eyes dropped, and he seemed to mumble his words in embarrassment as he pawed for a slip.
“The Larkin, sir!”
“What?” exploded Finley. “That superannuated old wreck? What the ——, sergeant, what the ——? For the last month I’ve been trying to get my paws on a good ship and all I get are crates that should be in a museum! ——, I’m sick of—”
“Oh, well, it isn’t your fault.”
A loud laugh resounded from the ceiling as young “Kink” Forell came out of the locker-room, helmet and coveralls on, goggles swinging in his hand, his parachute under his arm.
“Lieutenant James Finley, official scavenger of ships for McCook Field!” he gibed, his boldly handsome face twisted into a mirthless grin. “Gosh, you’ll save the survey officer more trouble before this year is out, Finley, than any flyer in the army.”
He stopped at the door to get in the last words. Radiant vitality oozed from every pore of the tall young flyer, and his greenish-gray eyes were sparkling.
Hot words rose to Finley’s lips, which was unusual. If they did come there was an undercurrent of humor in them, as there had been when he had raved querulously at the sergeant. But Kink Forell could rub him the wrong way every time.