“Something’s cooking up ahead,” Scoot said to Turk Bottomley, who sat next to him, legs stretched out on a straightback in front of him.
“Obviously, my friend,” Turk said. “Something’s been cooking in this part of the world almost all the time lately.”
“I thought we’d be heading for the Marshalls and the Carolines,” Scoot said, “to get in on the fighting there. But I guess they’ve got things well in hand in those parts. We’re well past them now, and to the south.”
“No flying for two days now,” Turk said. “That’s what’s been bothering me. Before we got off once in a while for a look around, anyway. I want to fly, that’s all. I won’t worry about where. Let the Admirals send me where they want me, but let me fly and fight when I get there—and, if possible, on the way, too.”
“Gee, I thought I loved flying,” Scoot said, with a laugh, “but I never held a candle to you.”
“Yeah, I even resent walkin’,” Turk said. “Seems like I should’ve had wings instead of legs—just for gettin’ around short distances. I’d still want that Grumman Hellcat for longer jumps.”
“They’re sweet ships, all right,” Scoot said. “I used to dream of flying a Wildcat—thought there just couldn’t be anything better than that. And I still thought so when I finally flew one off the training carrier. She was an old one, but still a Wildcat. Then when I get here on the Bunker Hill, I find the brand new F6F’s—and Hellcat is the right name. They’re what a Wildcat pilot dreams up as impossibly perfect when he thinks about what kind of plane he’ll have in Heaven.”
“Poetic, now, aren’t you, Scoot?” Turk said. “I can’t put words together that way, but it sounds nice when you talk about planes. Sometimes, when you get real excited, you almost talk the way I feel.”
Suddenly they sat up, as did the four or five others in the large room. Other pilots began to pile into the room followed by most of the big-shot officers on the ship.
“Oh-oh—here it comes!” Scoot said. “Now we’ll find out. It looks like a briefing.”