“But this time you will,” the lieutenant said. “This school has the ships and men now, and I’ll promise you—”
“Tie that outside, Lieutenant,” the sergeant answered, “I’ve heard it all before.
“By this time next Monday afternoon, America will have one more civilian on her hands. And she’s going to collect a mean problem, too. I’m sore, Lieutenant. I’ve been cheated too often to smile and turn the other cheek. This deal I’ve had handed me by Air Service smells like a eucalyptus kitty— See that guy climbing into that rear cockpit—” the sergeant pointed to a plane at the deadline—“well, that same jaybird used to be a bum cook in my outfit overseas. Shane’s his name. All that feller ever did for American honor was lap up French booze and make trouble. He was our ace of aces at it, too. Shane and me, Lieutenant, have been two different kinds of soldiers, but today he’s getting in official flying time and I’m still begging rides like a raw John Recruit. Where’s your damn’ justice in that? I’ll answer—out for lunch with two rags around her eyes! Me, reenlist? In a pig’s eye! Wonder what’s wrong with that plane.”
The plane into which they had watched Cadet Shane climb had started for a takeoff, bounced into the air, fluttered a few rods and dropped again for a hasty landing. It taxied back to where they were standing. It was one of the sergeant’s ships. At the deadline the instructor, Lieutenant Black, swung from his front cockpit, removed his goggles and said:
“Wish you’d look this ship over, Sergeant. The controls jam in the air. Bob Watts was flying it this morning and he had the same trouble.”
“I’ll work her over,” the sergeant promised. He looked at his watch. “Four o’clock now,” he said. “You won’t want to fly any more today, Lieutenant. She’ll be jake in the morning.”
“That’s O.K. with me, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Black agreed, and walked away with the sergeant’s C.O.
Cadet Shane was sore. He had been robbed of his afternoon period and did not care who knew that he was burned up.
“Damn’ funny you guys can’t keep ships in condition,” he said. “I haven’t had two hours’ airwork outa this hangar in two weeks.”
“Too damn’ bad about you, Shane,” was all the sympathy the sergeant extended. “If you’re as rotten a flyer as you were a cook, the field will be the winner if you never fly.”