Cassada Page 8

  “Roger. We’re notifying the tower.” There was a pause. “Five and one half miles. At this time you need not reply to any further transmissions. Correct further left to zero five three. Zero five three is your new heading, bringing you slowly back to the on-course. Zero five three.”

  The only sound was this almost self-involved voice. Five miles. Back right to zero five five. The waiting was interminable. Zero five five. Coming up to glide path.

  The three of them stood waiting, their eyes on the area just beyond the end of the runway where the planes would emerge from the darkening scud. Zero five five.

  At that moment the runway lights came on, dim and washed-out in the greyness, two long lines leading to where the fire trucks had pulled up on the middle taxiway, then going beyond.

  Four miles out, the controller was saying. Zero five one.

  “The lights aren’t up all the way,” Dunning said.

  Harlan, looking, gave a slight shrug.

  “Call the tower,” Dunning ordered.

  Harlan picked up the phone. “What’s their number, Major? Do you know?”

  “Look it up.”

  “It’s restricted. It’s not in the book.”

  “Ask the operator.”

  Zero five one, still. Holding steady. Approaching the glide path. Zero five one.

  “Come on, come on,” Dunning commanded. “Ask the operator!”

  Drifting slightly to the right. Left two more degrees. Ten feet above the glide path.

  Harlan was arguing with the operator, “I know it’s restricted. Just put me through. It’s urgent.”

  Two and three-quarters miles from touchdown. Going slightly high again. Fifteen feet now. Zero four nine is your heading.

  Dunning reached for the phone. “Listen, this is Major Dunning in mobile. We’re having an emergency on the field! Get me the tower right away.”

  “Sir, it’s res—”

  “Just get me the tower!”

  “May I have your name again, sir?”

  “Dunning, goddamn it! Major Dunning!”

  “Yes, sir, Major.”

  Tracking the right side. Twenty feet high on the glide path. Twenty-five. Still zero four nine. Now fifteen feet high. Coming back nicely. Ten. Back on glide path. Now going slightly low.

  Hold it steady, Dunning said to himself.

  Ten feet low. Now going to twenty. Bring it up. Thirty feet low.

  Harlan at last had the tower. “They’re turned all the way up now,” he reported.

  “Tell them to turn them down and then up again.”

  A mile and three quarters out. Holding forty feet low. The runway lights faded like guttering candles, nearly went out, then came up again.

  “Not any brighter,” Harlan said.

  “All right. Tell them to leave them like that.”

  A mile and a half. Approaching GCA minimums. Left to zero four seven. Make that further left to zero four five.

  Big corrections at the last moment. Dunning was looking hard at the clouds as headlights came up alongside and a figure hurried towards them from the car. It was Colonel Cadin, the fighter group commander. He pushed into the mobile.

  Holding forty feet low. Off slightly to the right. Zero four five. Make that zero four zero. Passing through GCA minimums.

  “What’s going on, Bud?” Cadin said. “Who’s up there?”

  Suddenly Godchaux’s arm flew up, pointing, and in the same instant the planes appeared, sinking through the clouds.

  “They’re not lined up,” Godchaux said.

  “You’re off to the right!” Dunning called on the radio.

  They were a hundred feet wide of the runway, breaking in and out of the heavy bottoms, slipping from sight, then reappearing. They began a bank towards the runway as they passed overhead, the noise loud and condensed, and a moment later vanished in the clouds.

  “You’re too long, White,” Dunning called. “You’re way too long.”

  They were in sight again, crossing over the lights about a third of the way down, still in a turn. They were not trying to land. They were trying to stay beneath and come around again.

  “Stay on your instruments, White!” Dunning warned. “It’s too low!”

  “I have the runway.”

  “Who is that?” Cadin asked.

  “Stay on your instruments!” Dunning called.

  They shot through cloud whisps, still low, appearing, disappearing, spread apart a little and both, from the dark smoke, carrying a lot of power.

  “I’ve lost you, White,” Dunning called. “Do you still have the runway?”

  Silence.

  “Watch it, White. Fly your instruments, boy. It’s too low.”

  There was a fragment that sounded like, “. . . no good,” and soon after, “climbing up.”

  Dunning felt a moment of relief despite himself, knowing it was not over, it would be worse, the relief one has with a dying man who begins to breathe smoothly.

  “Who is that?” Cadin said.

  “A lieutenant. Cassada. Isbell’s radio is out. He’s got him on his wing.”

  “Can you send them to an alternate?”

  “All the alternates are down. They don’t have the fuel.”

  “What are they doing clearing into here with weather like this?” Cadin demanded. He was a full colonel, a year younger than Dunning.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Ah, Bud,” Cadin said. “Jesus.”

  Over the air then, almost casually, came the question, “Do you have White Two?”

  “Negative, White Lead,” Dunning said. “Did you lose him?”

  There was no reply. Dunning saw Godchaux’s and Harlan’s faces, expressionless, turned towards him. Not that far off, across the shadowy grass, he could see the lights of his office still on. It was ages ago that he had been sitting there. For a moment, he could not think.

  “White Lead,” he called, “are you still with White Two?”

  It was like a courtroom, the icy question hung in the air. The controller was asking calmly, “Do you request another approach, White?”

  “I’m separated from White Two,” came the reply. “Do you have him on your scope?”

  “You’re separated from your wingman?”

  “Affirmative. Do you have him?”

  “Stand by,” the controller said.

  The clouds were dark now, solid as ice floes. Halfway down the runway the noiseless red lights of the waiting fire trucks were flashing. The sun had gone down, unseen. The day had ended. Dunning could sense it, feel it in his bones.

  Isbell walked out of his office, turning off the light. It was early evening but still bright. He went down the hallway towards the back door. The building was empty, he could tell from the sound of his footsteps. The typewriters were silent, the adding machine.

  In front of the bulletin board he stopped to read the notices. Under TEMPORARY was a photograph someone had clipped after they’d gotten back from Tripoli, curled at the edges but still there, a chimpanzee in goggles riding a motor scooter, and printed beneath: Just let me have a decent airplane, Captain—I’ll murder it. Isbell had never seen Cassada looking at it, but there was no doubt he’d seen it. He had become more removed, his pride drawn tighter around him, buttoned at the collar.

  Outside it was May dusk. Everyone had gone, the hardstand was empty. A stillness had fallen. A lone car came along the taxiway from the hangar, someone from maintenance who waved as they passed and turned down towards the gate, red taillights flashing on as they stopped and the guard came out to motion them by.

  Across the base, in the housing area, the banks of lights were beginning to show. They would grow brighter as the buildings themselves faded. In the end they would float through the darkness, freed, like a liner at sea. Isbell stood for a while. He could smell the wetness in the earth, the world turning green. Each day it seemed stronger.

  Far to the east, toward Mannheim, the sky was a scrawl of white tracings brilliant in the last
light. The final encounters. He watched them as they slowly faded and disappeared, lopsided circles falling off into vertical drops. A last pair, fresh, were moving across the distant sky—Canucks probably, out of Zweibrücken. Slow as an eclipse they sped along, pencil thin, seeking.

  Everything was quiet. The boulevards of the field were deserted, the intersections empty. It had been a day. It had been clear since dawn. Everybody had been up, searching like foxes, eager to meet. Up and over they had rolled in dogfights, filled with excitement, the ground above their heads, smoke rising blue from the towns, heaven beneath their feet. They had fought the crazy Canucks. They had fought the other groups and squadrons, they had fought one another, landing and hurrying in afterwards to shout about triumphs.

  He stood complete and weary. He felt content. The last two contrails had straightened out. The Canadians were heading west again, going home to sneak in just before dark.

  “Well, this is a surprise.”

  Outside the store, Godchaux turned.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Dunning.”

  She shook her head slightly. “I thought I told you about that.”

  “Mayann,” Godchaux managed to say.

  “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Godchaux gestured towards the interior which was tiled in white. “Buying mussels,” he said. “I told Jackie Grace I was coming down here and I’d get some for her.”

  Mayann Dunning made a face. “I’d rather eat pigs’ feet,” she said. “How do you cook them?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. She’s going to cook them. I’m supposed to get three pounds. I was coming to Trier anyway, so I just . . .”

  “Coming to Trier to do what?”

  “Just look around.”

  “Look around for what?”

  She had looked at him many times, in fact it was difficult not to look at him, but she had never had the opportunity with no one around. His skin was smooth and clear, his eyebrows dark but fine. Feeling her stare, in defense he smiled. His teeth!

  “Where’d you get your eyelashes?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “They just came.”

  “I’ll come in with you while you get the mussels.”

  “I was going to get them on the way back.”

  “You don’t want me to come in with you.”

  “No, it’d be fine. I was just not going to do it right now.”

  “Well, I’ll come with you while you’re doing whatever else you’re doing.”

  “Just walking around.”

  “Jackie’s cooking dinner?” Mayann asked as they walked.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re all going over there.”

  “That’s nice. She takes care of the bachelors in the flight.”

  “I guess she does.”

  “Sews on your buttons.”

  “She doesn’t do that.”

  “Who does?”

  She liked talking to him. Perhaps she would never really talk to him, but it was pleasant trying.

  They walked on. Trier was an old town of dark red brick, a town dating back to Roman times. It was historically important but not particularly interesting. There were the remains of a large amphitheater somewhere—Mayann had gone with the wives’ club to see it—some Roman baths, and vineyards up in the hills.

  “I’m hungry,” Mayann said. “What time is it?”

  “Almost twelve-thirty.”

  “Do you want some lunch.”

  In a restaurant with windows of brownish glass in rows of small circles, Godchaux ordered a beer.

  “Do you like the local wine?” Mayann asked.

  “Moselle, you mean? I’ve tried it. It’s all right.”

  “Then you don’t like it?”

  “I guess I like the beer more.”

  “You know what I always say. I always say you should have what you want.” She was opening the menu. “But only . . .”

  He waited, slightly nervous. He could not imagine what she was going to add.

  “Only after you know what you want.”

  The waitress was nearby. Godchaux said to her, “I’ll have the wine.”

  “Moselle?”

  “Ja, Moselle. Another glass of Moselle.”

  It was yellowish when it came. He drank it without much enthusiasm but ended up having a second glass of it.

  “Have you ever played this?” Mayann said. She was laying out matches she had torn from a book of them. They formed a pyramid, five matches in the bottom row, three in the next, then one. Godchaux shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  The rules, she explained, were simple. From any one row any number of matches could be removed. Then it was the other player’s turn, and so forth. The loser was the one who picked up the last match.

  “You go,” she said.

  Godchaux looked at the matches for a minute or two and picked up the single match. Mayann picked up two from the row of five. Godchaux casually picked up the remaining three from the same row. That left three matches in what had been the middle row. Mayann picked up two of them.

  “I get it,” he said.

  She laid them out again. This time he looked longer at the matches and picked up one from the row of five. She took away two from the same row. Godchaux took away one from the row of three. Mayann picked up the lone match from the top row.

  Godchaux sat examining the situation. He saw he had lost again. If he picked up one or both matches from either row, she would remove both from the other row or just one.

  “You win,” he said. “Is there a trick to it?”

  “No trick.”

  “There must be some trick.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “You always win.”

  The waitress was bringing their order.

  “Not always,” Mayann said. “You look like someone who wins.”

  He glanced up. She was not looking at him but at the plate being put before her.

  “Danke schoen,” she said to the waitress.

  “How did you and the major meet?” Godchaux said as he began to eat.

  “We met in college.”

  “Before he went to flying school.”

  “I was pregnant when he went to flying school.”

  “Oh, you were already married.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was pregnant,” she said, “but I took care of it like a good girl.”

  Godchaux didn’t know what to say. He nodded a little vaguely and, stealing a glance at her, continued to eat.

  “Bud thinks the world of you, I guess you know that.”

  Godchaux said nothing.

  “He thinks . . . well, what do I need to tell you that for? Don’t you want to know what I think?”

  She had often teased him. She did not seem to be teasing now.

  “Yeah,” he said, admiring her.

  “Don’t you already know?”

  Trier was a port town, on the Moselle, and possessed, though neither of them had heard of it, a celebrated garment said to be the robe of Christ. It was not ordinarily on display and was brought out only rarely, when it attracted great crowds. Close to the well-preserved Roman gate was the chief hotel of the town. It had survived the war undamaged—Trier was not heavily bombed—and was comfortable if a little old-fashioned. In such hotels one expected comfort. The hallways were wide and the doors of the rooms, which were large and seemed to have too much space, were glossy with a perfect, almost plastic coat of white.

  The hotel was the Porta Nigra, named for the Roman gate. It was there, not only on that day but on a number thereafter that Lancelot, aware of the danger, went with his queen.

  The clouds were spread in all directions like a layer of curdled milk. Far above them flew two Canadians looking, as always, for a fight. No one else was up, however, and they had turned homeward when, at the very last, they saw two contrails, lower, distant, to the south.

  “Let’s get those.”


  “I’m down to twelve hundred pounds,” the wingman said.

  “That’s plenty.”

  They began a slow turn to bring themselves over and behind, and then rolled down. It was perfect. They hadn’t been seen. As they closed they saw the big droptanks, bathtubs. Americans. Four hundred knots. Almost in range. Suddenly the two planes in front of them pulled up together in a left turn and disappeared into the glare of the sun. The Canadian leader held up his thumb to cover it and then his entire hand. He didn’t see them. He continued to block out the sun, waiting for them to come out on one side of the glare or the other. Leveling out, he kept looking and heard his wingman call, “Eight o’clock!”

  He strained to look back, over his shoulder. Sure enough, there they were.

  “Hard left!” he called.

  They began a tightening circle, turning amid their own contrails, which were persistent and thick. In the end the two opposing leaders were heading straight down, speed brakes out, canopy to canopy, rolling around each other like a barber pole. Through the very top of the canopy the Canadian could look into the other cockpit and see the pilot’s head there, thrown back too. They were that close, absolutely vertical, the rate of descent needle straight down, the altimeter spinning like a wheel. Around and around, headed for the clouds until just above them they pulled out and began scissoring, almost in a stall, noses high, lurching past each other.

  Slowly, sweat pouring from him, the Canadian began, because of the tanks, to get the better of it, skimming over the cloud surface. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the second American, come from he didn’t know where and unbelievably close, the intake as big as a piano. Without pausing he pushed over and into the clouds.

  He was safe there, unfollowable. He made several turns and at the end climbed out again, half expecting to see them waiting like terriers over a rat hole, but they were gone. He couldn’t see them anywhere, nor his wingman. He called but got no answer. Only when he was nearly back to the base at Gros Tenquin did he get the wingman to reply.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I lost you when we went below the cons,” the wingman said.

  “I’ll say you did.”

  The victors of the combat in which they had been matched against cleaner airplanes landed low on fuel in light rain. The ceiling had come down. The leader—it was Grace—was summoned from the locker room almost immediately. Isbell had learned from the servicing crew how much fuel had been left in the planes.