We all drank.
“Where was I?” asked Baldy.
“Just coming out of the McAlester Hotel,” a flyer said. “In all your horror and your beauty—don’t clown, Baldy. Oddly enough we’re interested.”
“I will describe it,” said Baldy. “But first I must have more champagne wine.” He had drained the glass when we drank to him.
“If he drinks like that he’ll go to sleep,” another flyer said. “Only give him half a glass.”
Baldy drank it off.
“I will describe it,” he said. “After another little drink.”
“Listen, Baldy, take it easy will you? This is something we want to get straight. You got no ship now for a few days but we’re flying tomorrow and this is important as well as interesting.”
“I made my report,” said Baldy. “You can read it out at the field. They’ll have a copy.”
“Come on, Baldy, snap out of it.”
“I will describe it eventually,” said Baldy. He shut and opened his eyes several times, then said, “Hello Comrade Santa Claus” to Al. “I will describe it eventually. All you comrades have to do is listen.”
And he described it.
“It was very strange and very beautiful,” Baldy said and drank off the glass of champagne.
“Cut it out, Baldy,” a flyer said.
“I have experienced profound emotions,” Baldy said. “Highly profound emotions. Emotions of the deepest dye.”
“Let’s get back to Alcalá,” one flyer said. “That pink head isn’t going to make sense. What about the game?”
“He’s going to make sense,” another flyer said. “He’s just winding up.”
“Are you criticizing me?” asked Baldy. “Is that the thanks of the Republic?”
“Listen, Santa Claus,” Al said. “What was it like?”
“Are you asking me?” Baldy stared at him. “Are you putting questions to me? Have you ever been in action, comrade?”
“No,” said Al. “I got these eyebrows burnt off when I was shaving.”
“Keep your drawers on, comrade,” said Baldy. “I will describe the strange and beautiful scene. I’m a writer, you know, as well as a flyer.”
He nodded his head in confirmation of his own statement.
“He writes for the Meridian, Mississippi, Argus,” said a flyer. “All the time. They can’t stop him.”
“I have talent as a writer,” said Baldy. “I have a fresh and original talent for description. I have a newspaper clipping which I have lost which says so. Now I will launch myself on the description.”
“O.K. What did it look like?”
“Comrades,” said Baldy. “You can’t describe it.” He held out his glass.
“What did I tell you?” said a flyer. “He couldn’t make sense in a month. He never could make sense.”
“You,” said Baldy, “you unfortunate little fellow. All right. When I banked out of it I looked down and of course she had been pouring back smoke but she was holding right on her course to get over the mountains. She was losing altitude fast and I came up and over and dove on her again. There were still wingmen then and she’d lurched and started to smoke twice as much and then the door of the cockpit came open and it was just like looking into a blast furnace, and then they started to come out.
I’d half rolled, dove, and then pulled up out of it and I was looking back and down and they were coming out of her, out through the blast furnace door, dropping out trying to get clear, and the chutes opened up and they looked like great big beautiful morning glories opening up and she was just one big thing of flame now like you never saw and going round and round and there were four chutes just as beautiful as anything you could see just pulling slow against the sky and then one started to burn at the edge and as it burned the man started to drop fast and I was watching him when the bullets started to come by and the Fiats right behind them and the bullets and the Fiats.”
“You’re a writer all right,” said one flyer. “You ought to write for War Aces. Do you mind telling me in plain language what happened?”
“No,” said Baldy. “I’ll tell you. But you know, no kidding, it was something to see. And I never shot down any big tri-motor Junkers before and I’m happy.”
“Everybody’s happy, Baldy. Tell us what happened, really.”
“O.K.” said Baldy. “I’ll just drink a little wine and then I’ll tell you.”
“How were you when you sighted them?”
“We were in a left echelon of V’s. Then we went into a left echelon of echelons and dove onto them with all four guns until you could have touched them before we rolled out of it. We crippled three others. The Fiats were hanging up in the sun. They didn’t come down until I was sightseeing all by myself.”
“Did your wingmen muck off?”
“No. It was my fault. I started watching the spectacle and they were gone. There isn’t any formation for watching spectacles. I guess they went on and picked up the echelon. I don’t know. Don’t ask me. And I’m tired. I was elated. But now I’m tired.”
“You’re sleepy you mean. You’re rum-dumb and sleepy.”
“I am simply tired,” said Baldy. “A man in my position has the right to be tired. And if I become sleepy I have the right to be sleepy. Don’t I Santa Claus?” he said to Al.
“Yeah,” said Al. “I guess you have the right to be sleepy. I’m even sleepy myself. Isn’t there going to be any crap game?”
“We got to get him out to Alcalá and we’ve got to get out there too,” a flyer said. “Why? You lost money in the game?”
“A little,” said Al.
“ou want to try to pass for it once?” the flyer asked him.
“I’ll shoot a thousand,” Al said.
“I’ll fade you,” the flyer said. “You guys don’t make much, do you?”
“No,” said Al. “We don’t make much.”
He laid the thousand-peseta note down on the floor, rolled the dice between his palms so they clicked over and over, and shot them out on the floor with a snap. Two ones showed.
“They’re still your dice,” the flyer said, picking up the bill and looking at Al.
“I don’t need them,” said Al. He stood up.
“Need any dough?” the flyer asked him. Looking at him curiously.
“Got no use for it,” Al said.
“We’ve got to get the hell out to Alcalá,” the flyer said. “We’ll have a game some night soon. We’ll get hold of Frank and the rest of them. We could get up a pretty good game. Can we give you a lift?”
“Yes. Want a ride?”
“No,” Al said. “I’m walking. It’s just down the street.”
“Well, we’re going out to Alcalá. Does anybody know the password for tonight?”
“Oh, the chauffeur will have it. He’ll have gone by and picked it up before dark.”
“Come on, Baldy. You drunken sleepy bum.”
“Not me,” said Baldy. “I am a potential ace of the people’s army.”
“Takes ten to be an ace. Even if you count Italians. You’ve only got one, Baldy.”
“It wasn’t Italians,” said Baldy. “It was Germans. And you didn’t see her when she was all hot like that inside. She was a raging inferno.”
“Carry him out,” said a flyer. “He’s writing for that Meridian, Mississippi, paper again. Well, so long. Thanks for having us up in the room.”
They all shook hands and they were gone. I went to the head of the stairs with them. The elevator was no longer running and I watched them go down the stairs. One was on each side of Baldy and he was nodding his head slowly. He was really sleepy now.
In their room the two I was working on the picture with were still working over the bad camera. It was delicate, eye-straining work and when I asked, “Do you think you’ll get her?” the tall one said, “Yes. Sure. We have to. I make a piece now which was broken.”
“What was the party?” asked the other. “We work always on this damn camera.”
“American flyers,” I said. “And a fellow I used to know who’s in tanks.”
“Goot fun? I am sorry not to be there.”
“All right,” I said. “Kind of funny.”
“You must get sleep. We must all be up early. We must be fresh for tomorrow.”
“How much more have you got on that camera?”
“There it goes again. Damn such shape springs.”
“Leave him alone. We finish it. Then we all sleep. What time you call us?”
“Five?”
“All right. As soon as is light.”
“Good night.”
“Salud. Get some sleep.”
“Salud,” I said. “We’ve got to be closer tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have thought so too. Much closer. I am glad you know.”
Al was asleep in the big chair in the room with the light on his face. I put a blanket over him but he woke.
“I’m going down.”
“Sleep here. I’ll set the alarm and call you.”
“Something might happen with the alarm,” he said. “I better go down. I don’t want to get there late.”
“I’m sorry about the game.”
“They’d have broke me anyway,” he said. “Those guys are poisonous with dice.”
“You had the dice there on that last play.”
“They’re poisonous fading you too. They’re strange guys too. I guess they don’t get overpaid. I guess if you are doing it for dough there isn’t enough dough to pay for doing it.”
“Want me to walk down with you?”
“No,” he said, standing up, and buckling on the big web-belted Colt he had taken off when he came back after dinner to the game. “No, I feel fine now. I’ve got my perspective back again. All you need is a perspective.”
“I’d like to walk down.”
“No. Get some sleep. I’ll go down and I’ll get a good five hours’ sleep before it starts.”
“That early?”
“Yeah. You won’t have any light to film by.
