hogback, in from the bay at Salamaua."
"Modest. I meant on you."
Ben paused. "I don't generally show it off."
She bolted the last of her drink, but there was a challenging dry tingle in her mouth as she spoke it: "Never make an exception?"
And ever since, the part she hated: if she wanted to hang on to her marriage and officer's rank, they didn't dare get caught at it. Tell no one. Show nothing. Staying casual as you hid a lover was a surprising amount of work, but now she managed to shrug at Beryl's remark. "I've just always done it, Bear. Dan and I knew a mechanic who slipped off a ladder, caught his ring on a bolt head. Pulled it right off."
"The ring?" Della was deep in admiration of the newspaper photo, where the flip of her blonde hair showed to advantage. "So what?"
"The finger, fool."
"Yipe. Guess I better stay single, keep on playing the field."
"Is that where you head out to with that warrant officer who has the jeep," Mary Catherine wondered, "the nearest field?"
"Nice talk, Mary Cat. I don't see you around the nunnery." Della tucked the newspaper into her ready-bag. "Maybe I ought to set my sights higher, a war correspondent. Anybody find out, is he up for grabs?"
"He's engaged," Cass made up on the spot. "Head over heels for the lucky girl, from the sound of it. Everybody, strap on those chutes in case this moron pilot isn't any better at reading a fuel gauge than the weather."
Mary Catherine couldn't resist a last dig on Della. "You're losing your touch, Delly. You might have known that dreamboat of a correspondent is taken." She spoke with the air of one who had been through enough men to know. "The good ones always are."
"Lieutenant Reinking, sir? I've been looking all over for you."
Not again. Doesn't that damn general have anything else to do, like run the base?
On edge anyway, Ben had intended to slip into his office only for a minute before heading to the communications section and then checking the flight board again. The last two times, the board showed NTO ZV—no takeoff, zero visibility—for Cass's WASP 1 squadron. It spooked him—possibly more than it should, but it spooked him nonetheless. Fog induced crashes. That 1,200-horsepower engine situated directly in back of the pilot seat, like a cocked catapult.
Seattle wrote the book on fog, surely to God they'll scrub the flight, won't they?
Along with fretting about Cass and trying to wind down from leave, he had spent the afternoon with his typewriter in a back room at the base library, wrapping up the piece on Vic. The war did not recognize Sunday, but somehow it was the slowest day of message traffic and his intention was to send in the piece while the sending was good. In the way of that stood a squat broken-nosed hard case in rumpled uniform, nervously fiddling with his cap. Ben eyed him distrustfully until he realized there was no armband of an orderly-room runner on this one.
"All over is the right place to look for me," Ben admitted. "What's on your mind, soldier?"
"Didn't they tell you, sir? I'm your new clerk."
Caught off-guard, Ben shot a glance at the desk in the corner; it had been swept clean of everything except the typewriter and the Speed Graphic camera, making his own chronically overloaded desk look even more like a dump. "What happened to Wryzinski?"
"Nobody told me that, sir." The anthem of the enlisted man.
Ben had just been getting used to Wryzinski. "Right, why did I even ask. Tepee Weepy taketh away and Tepee Weepy giveth." He offered the new man a handshake. "What do I call you?"
Jones, sir.
"Nobody's named that," Ben responded, grinning to put him at ease. "It's taken."
"I don't quite catch your meaning, sir."
This was going to require some care, Ben realized. "Let's do this over, Corporal. First off, I'll try to remember to wiggle my ears when I'm making a joke and you try to pretend there is such a thing as a joke. Second, drop the 'sir' when there's no one here but us, and that's all the time." The
"Modest. I meant on you."
Ben paused. "I don't generally show it off."
She bolted the last of her drink, but there was a challenging dry tingle in her mouth as she spoke it: "Never make an exception?"
And ever since, the part she hated: if she wanted to hang on to her marriage and officer's rank, they didn't dare get caught at it. Tell no one. Show nothing. Staying casual as you hid a lover was a surprising amount of work, but now she managed to shrug at Beryl's remark. "I've just always done it, Bear. Dan and I knew a mechanic who slipped off a ladder, caught his ring on a bolt head. Pulled it right off."
"The ring?" Della was deep in admiration of the newspaper photo, where the flip of her blonde hair showed to advantage. "So what?"
"The finger, fool."
"Yipe. Guess I better stay single, keep on playing the field."
"Is that where you head out to with that warrant officer who has the jeep," Mary Catherine wondered, "the nearest field?"
"Nice talk, Mary Cat. I don't see you around the nunnery." Della tucked the newspaper into her ready-bag. "Maybe I ought to set my sights higher, a war correspondent. Anybody find out, is he up for grabs?"
"He's engaged," Cass made up on the spot. "Head over heels for the lucky girl, from the sound of it. Everybody, strap on those chutes in case this moron pilot isn't any better at reading a fuel gauge than the weather."
Mary Catherine couldn't resist a last dig on Della. "You're losing your touch, Delly. You might have known that dreamboat of a correspondent is taken." She spoke with the air of one who had been through enough men to know. "The good ones always are."
"Lieutenant Reinking, sir? I've been looking all over for you."
Not again. Doesn't that damn general have anything else to do, like run the base?
On edge anyway, Ben had intended to slip into his office only for a minute before heading to the communications section and then checking the flight board again. The last two times, the board showed NTO ZV—no takeoff, zero visibility—for Cass's WASP 1 squadron. It spooked him—possibly more than it should, but it spooked him nonetheless. Fog induced crashes. That 1,200-horsepower engine situated directly in back of the pilot seat, like a cocked catapult.
Seattle wrote the book on fog, surely to God they'll scrub the flight, won't they?
Along with fretting about Cass and trying to wind down from leave, he had spent the afternoon with his typewriter in a back room at the base library, wrapping up the piece on Vic. The war did not recognize Sunday, but somehow it was the slowest day of message traffic and his intention was to send in the piece while the sending was good. In the way of that stood a squat broken-nosed hard case in rumpled uniform, nervously fiddling with his cap. Ben eyed him distrustfully until he realized there was no armband of an orderly-room runner on this one.
"All over is the right place to look for me," Ben admitted. "What's on your mind, soldier?"
"Didn't they tell you, sir? I'm your new clerk."
Caught off-guard, Ben shot a glance at the desk in the corner; it had been swept clean of everything except the typewriter and the Speed Graphic camera, making his own chronically overloaded desk look even more like a dump. "What happened to Wryzinski?"
"Nobody told me that, sir." The anthem of the enlisted man.
Ben had just been getting used to Wryzinski. "Right, why did I even ask. Tepee Weepy taketh away and Tepee Weepy giveth." He offered the new man a handshake. "What do I call you?"
Jones, sir.
"Nobody's named that," Ben responded, grinning to put him at ease. "It's taken."
"I don't quite catch your meaning, sir."
This was going to require some care, Ben realized. "Let's do this over, Corporal. First off, I'll try to remember to wiggle my ears when I'm making a joke and you try to pretend there is such a thing as a joke. Second, drop the 'sir' when there's no one here but us, and that's all the time." The
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