OFFICERS
FLYING OFFICERS
FLYING CADETS
CADETS
“And the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats,” thought Tommy as he climbed a short flight of steps and entered the office. The shepherd, a small, pot bellied man with captain’s bars but no wings on his serge blouse, eyed the newest flying lieutenant, his whipcord uniform and his papers with disfavor.
“All right,” he said in a querulous voice. “Find yourself a bunk in the flying officers’ barrack. You will be assigned to a section for duty. Look on the bulletin board in the operations office.”
Tommy saluted and went out. He saw his baggage still forming an island in the sea of mud, but it seemed to have shrunk appreciably since he left it. He had an idea that he must salvage it before it disappeared entirely.
Walking along the duckboard, he heard a chorus of voices raised in ribald song in one of the barracks and stopped, feeling that he had reached a friendly haven.
“When I joined the Army I was clean and neat, Now—”
The noise ceased abruptly as the flying officer entered.
“Attention!” shouted one voice.
“Ma-a-a-a-ah!” said another.
The place was full of irreverent and antagonistic cadets, and Tommy retreated, feeling that it was not the time to stop and explain that the only reason he was not among them was through the mistake of some nodding Homer in Washington in giving him a commission as soon as he enlisted, instead of when he got his pilot’s license. The song followed him: