The Church God Built

Eighteen-year old Army Air Corps cadet Johnson was determined to earn his wings in spite of doubting detractors. Flight Instructor, Vic Wood, worried this student carried deep problems into the cockpit of airplanes with unheard speeds and altitudes. Vic Wood had the responsibility to turn pimple-face boys into killing machines.

Max Heinzmann, holder of the Iron Cross with Swords, continues to rack up kills as he leads his squadron with latest Messchermitts. Max and Vic are no strangers. They met in skies over Afrika where Vic became an ace.

Vic Wood used every opportunity to teach his protégé maneuvers not taught in regulation instruction manuals. He is determined to teach Bud all he could in the short time left.

A cross-country landing at an Oklahoma Indian reservation changed Bud’s life.

Romana was Native American and the most beautiful girl Cadet Bud Johnson had ever seen. Any differences vanished when love bound the young couple. Bud was exposed to Native Culture and traditions, riding a spirited stallion across desert wastelands with the girl he wanted to be his wife.

An uncertain future in Europe’s deadly skies only drew Bud and Romana closer. Romana gave Bud a small wood flute to play when they were parted promising wind would carry their private love songs.

Listen to the wind

By

Vernon E. Beall

It seemed a long and tortuous walk for Cadet Clarence Johnson from the post’s supply hut to the Administration Building. A parachute swung with each step striking him on the back of his legs. He felt places were being rubbed raw on each leg.

Inside the building a bored looking corporal pointed him to the appropriate office. Cadet Johnson stopped in front of a closed door marked, Instructor. After a moment’s hesitation, he knocked lightly and heard a voice call, Enter.

Eighteen-year-old Cadet Johnson stopped in front of a dented olive-drab metal desk cluttered with papers and clipboards. A man seated at the desk barely looked at the cadet standing quietly before him. He continued to read a page then flipped to another. Cadet Johnson waited feeling weight of a 30-pound parachute trying to pull him backwards. It gave him time to observe the man who would be his flight instructor. A name on the desk read Vic Wood. He had a square face and looked tired. Johnson began to lose enthusiasm to work with him. He wondered how they would they react to each other? Johnson knew he had always respected his time working with two previous instructors. After what seemed at least five minutes to the impatient cadet, Wood raised gray calculating eyes and asked, Johnson?

Yes Sir.

Thirty-two hours? Only two hours of basic maneuvers and navigation? No instrument?

Ah—no sir.

Johnson could tell him why training was cut short at his previous field but decided to remain quiet. Wood gave a weary sigh and returned attention to a yellow manila file. Cadet Johnson stood awkwardly trying to prepare for what might come next. He did not have long to wait.

Wood fixed unblinking eyes on him and said, So you want to kill Japs or Germans?

Johnson felt a rush of anger but managed to say, I want to fly—Sir.

He saw what might be mistaken for a slight smile on the man’s face.

The instructor straightened in his chair and said, You can go out and find N-One-Five-One. Do a pre-flight.

Johnson started to leave when Wood stopped him. Johnson, you might want to remove that chute and carry it until you get to the plane. It’s quite a jaunt with thirty pounds of canvas chafing your ass.

Johnson felt his face flush. He started to say the supply sergeant ordered him to put it on, but said nothing as he quickly un-strapped wide canvas belts. He knew now he was the victim of the sergeant’s practical joke.

He felt relieved to be out of the office away from the man who held his flying destiny in his hands. Still he was happy to be away from home. Of course, he missed his mother but he had long ago accepted he never felt close to his father. He didn’t hold his father responsible; it was just that he was always busy at work. Clarence Johnson, Sr. had recently been promoted to assistant manager of Hut Brothers’ Baltimore Department Store. The family now received a ten- percent discount on what they purchased.

He remembered his father had begun to teach him to drive their 1939 Chevrolet. That ended when he ran over a neighbor’s mailbox. His father was dead set against his enlisting in the army air corps saying, If you can’t drive a car how do you expect to fly an airplane?

The bitter words only drove Johnson harder to leave home and he suspected his unhappy mother knew it.

Cadet Johnson remembered the family had only once attempted a vacation two years ago when his father drove he and his mother to Ocean City, Maryland. His father had chosen the first week in July when motel rates were the highest. As a result, his father demanded they pack up and leave after the first night. He recalled how his mother had longed for time away from the city’s heat and a few days free from house chores, but she voiced no objections. His mother made the return trip home looking out a passenger window hiding her tears. The trip lacked conversation but with a lot of frustration for everyone. He did not hate his father, but he knew he held little respect for the man that made life miserable for his mother in many ways.

Cadet Johnson felt the sergeant’s joke could only be the beginning of lots of embarrassing mistakes for a teenager fresh out of high school. He would learn the hard way things his father was always too busy to teach him. He was determined to be a pilot or die trying. Clarence Johnson, the refugee from Baltimore, was prepared to face Instructor Wood and whatever was the Army Air Corps had waiting. Johnson walked resolutely ignoring the many maintenance workers swarming over parked airplanes.

Airplane One Five One was parked in a long line of brightly shinning North American T-6 trainers better known as Texan. Johnson had read an official manual about the plane on a bus coming from Texas to the Army’s Maxwell Airfield. He knew an AT-6 would be much different from the Stearman he had soloed in. The double-wing Stearman was fabric covered with an open cockpit. In contrast the AT-6 had tandem seats enclosed with a full glass canopy.

The plane’s shiny aluminum body reminded him of his mother’s cherished polished silver teapot. A manual described the ship as having a constant speed propeller and powered by a six hundred horsepower Pratt and Whitney engine. Johnson heard rumors that the Texan had a tendency to spin easy and had wiped-out many cadets— some permanently.

He walked around the metal airplane doing a required preflight check, all the while marveling at the sleek machine’s enclosed cabin. He hoped his ears would not ring all night after flying from wind noise. The open cockpit Stearman’s wind noise was like riding a motorcycle at a hundred fifty miles an hour!

The Texan was even faster with a top speed of two hundred fifty. He never dreamed he would ever go at that fast. Maybe he would buzz his house and let Dad see him? He smiled but put the thought fast out of mind. His dream was more important than to commit some stupid act that could get him booted out of the service.

Johnson put on a parachute and climbed into the forward student’s seat. The cockpit was cramped yet he could move freely. The plane’s console seemed to be filled with a dozen gauges. After a brief inspection, he saw they were not too different from ones installed in a Stearman, only in different locations.

Two metal levers of different size, beneath his legs, caught his attention. After a short inspection he decided one controlled flap settings, the other raised or lowered the ship’s landing gear. He felt a chill warning him never to mistake the two levers that were located close in position, but each with much different results.

He became aware of a sour smell inside the cockpit. He tried to force a Plexiglas canopy open further.

It won’t open any more.

Johnson looked to see Wood standing beside the right wing. Wood shook the wing with both hands before making his own circling inspection of the craft.

As Wood climbed into the rear seat he said, Johnson, did you make a pre-flight?

Yes Sir.

Find anything?

Ah, no Sir.

The port wing lamp cover is cracked. Make a report to get if repaired.

Yes Sir.

Johnson felt embarrassed and was beginning to feel his dislike the man was justified. He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he looked back over a shoulder, Wood motioned to his ear and tapped the top of his head. He quickly attached a connecting phone line, angry with himself for yet another error. Things were definitely starting wrong with this new instructor.

Chapter 2

Eight airplanes were parked in a line, covered with early morning’s dew. N One Five One was second in line. Cadet Johnson sat in the plane’s forward seat.

Okay, Johnson, start her up.

Cadet Johnson yelled, Clear!

A man wearing blue coveralls pulled on ropes dragging wooden wedges from two forward wheels. Cadet Clarence Johnson had prepared for this opportunity and preset the necessary adjustments. Manifold pressure was set at thirty-six pounds. He pressed a starter switch and the engine coughed a cloud of blue smoke. When the engine started Johnson reached for the throttle lever mounted on the left side of the cockpit. A metal propeller spun a half turn, stopped, and then began to slowly rotate. As if a giant had been awakened, a low rumble began deep inside the metal monster. Sounds rapidly increased and the ship vibrated as if weathering an earthquake. Smoke and deafening noise belched from the machine’s iron lungs. Clarence Johnson was both frightened and impressed with sounds of the engine’s power. For a moment the crewman on the ground holding a fire extinguisher disappeared in a heavy cloud of smoke. An over-head canopy began to vibrate making sounds like ice cubes rattling in a glass bowl.

Tower—N One Five One requesting takeoff. Over.

One five One clear to runway One thirteen. Wind eight; variable from southwest. Visibility six miles. Over.

Roger. Out.

With a firm hand, he increased engine speed to 1800 RPM as he reached for a magneto switch. He moved a switch from Both to Left and closely monitored a needle’s movement. Satisfied the magnetos were working in a safe margin Johnson returned the switch to a neutral position. The right-side needle remained steady as the switch was moved back to its original place.

Cadet Johnson reported, Magnetos working, Sir.

He heard a muffled sound in his earphones that he could not understand. You don’t have to ‘sir’ me, Cadet Johnson. Taxi left. Watch for ground traffic. Stop at the end of the field.

The aircraft set typically in a nose-high attitude that made it impossible to see directly forward. It was affectionately called a tail dragger forcing a pilot to weave in a zigzag course in order to see forward. The Stearman, his former trainer, had the same characteristics so he was familiar dealing with the problem. For the first time the cadet began to feel comfortable and in command, although he felt his hands sweating inside G.I issued leather flying gloves.

When he stopped at the designated place, Clarence Johnson lowered wing flaps to ten degrees, careful to avoid the dangerous undercarriage lever.

Inside his earphones he heard the tower warn, One-Five-One hold for incoming. Over.

Johnson could not see an in-coming plane but answered, Roger.

He heard what sounded like a grunt in his headset.

A B-25 medium bomber darted past overhead and landed not far beyond where the AT-6 waited. Johnson marveled at the smooth landing as only a brief puff of smoke was seen when the wheels touched concrete at a hundred miles an hour.

One-Five-One you are cleared for takeoff. Over.

Roger.

This time Johnson did not hear any sound from the rear. He kicked right rudder, increased power, and the sleek craft moved onto a mile-long ribbon of black asphalt. Bud maneuvered rudder pedals to line the ship down the center of the runway. When the roll was begun the engine thundered with full throttle and the wheels bumped and jerked at each crack in the pavement. He felt his body tense as the plane’s speed increased. He checked the air speed at fifty. He eased the control stick forward and felt the tail lift. Speed increased to fifty-eight.

He was suddenly aware of unseen pressure that was trying to cut power. Johnson swept all the gauges, determined to hold the throttle tightly, and found everything to be in order. He continued to hold the throttle hard forward realizing it was Wood trying to cut power.

What the hell you doing, Sir?

His answer was a small chuckle.

At ninety-five, he eased the stick back between his legs and the silver nose pointed skyward. Vibrations lessened when the ship became airborne. Swishing sounds of air filled the cockpit blending with a steady roar of the powerful engine. He was fully alert now. An enemy sat six feet behind him. At five-hundred feet he began a climbing left turn. When the plane reached an altitude of eight hundred feet, Wood tried to cut power again but Johnson was ready and refused to give up control. He knew he might face a washout, but damn if he would go with a broken neck. If Wood wanted to play games, he would name the rules.

Level at five thousand.

The terse message in his earphones made him realize he must stay alert.

Yes, Sir.

You have another name besides Clarence?

That’s my name, Sir.

There was a pause before Wood said, You have a nick name? What do guys call you?

Johnson bit his lip thinking. Sometimes, Bud.

It’s Bud now. There may not be time in an emergency for ‘Clar—ence’!

At least he did not ridicule the name. He also was aware Wood never called him Boy or spoke disrespectful. Truly a man of contrast. Bud felt he was in a tight spot trying to concentrate on flying a new type plane, as well as trying to figure out the man who was seated behind him. Slowly Bud sensed the sensation of speed was lost as they flew a mile above a scattering of miniature houses and tiny lines tracing rural roads that ran mostly east and west. Cultivated farm fields spread beneath the wings. Wisps of fog appeared like clouds of grey smoke.

Exhilaration swept over him and a feeling of power became all- consuming. A ceiling of fluffy clouds moved quietly overhead. He wondered if flying high and free could hold some mysterious ecstasy, if only he could be patient? Somewhere in his brief training he had sensed there was an enchantment in flight yet to be discovered. He could not deny he sensed it at times like this. The man seated behind him would be his first obstacle—and perhaps his last. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to reach that pinnacle.

After thirty minutes of shallow turns and primary maneuvers Wood said, Take us to seven thousand in a climbing left turn.

Johnson leveled at the requested altitude. He heard, Full power and climb!

Cadet Johnson had no knowledge of what to expect but he followed orders. In front of the windscreen everything became a moving mixture of brown, green, and blue. The view became like an electrified kaleidoscope. He felt himself being pulled backwards in his seat.

Back on the stick! Back!

Bud Johnson pulled back on the control stick trying desperately at the same time to lean forward to maintain a false balance.

Hold those wings level! Back

The airplane was suspended in a vertical position with its nose pointed into empty blue space. He was on his back unable to see anything except the nose of the airplane and space. The full weight of the plane was being held suspended by sheer power of the propeller! Bud felt pure fright for the first time in his young life knowing he was about to flip over backwards! He felt his hair standing on edge, then without warning, he felt weightless. The airplane shuddered as if it would be ripped apart. The ship was falling backwards on its tail! His mind recalled a sense of falling the time he had been dared to dive off a thirty-foot board at the city swimming pool.

Forward! Stick forward!

Air screamed into his ears and the airspeed needle raced past two hundred sixty.

Cut power! Pull up! Damn it! We are in a power dive!

Bud wanted to scream and argue and vomit! It had all happened so damn quickly! Hell! It was what he was told to do! He was pressed deep into a hard parachute cushion as the AT-6 began to level. A glance at the console indicated speed was in the restricted red zone. Excessive pressure on the airframe was as real as the unnatural weight on his body. The plane could snap in two, he felt, at any second! He felt lightheaded and was fighting hard not to vomit. Bud fought with himself for failing to reduce power when he lowered the nose, a basic requirement he had learned in the Stearman. He felt dizzy and his vision was fuzzy—and he was about to empty his gut!

Cadet Bud Johnson was not fully conscious when or how he parked the plane and cut the engine. Without waiting he escaped the straps and harness and made a fast exit toward the nearest building. He used the first toilet when his stomach exploded. He silently cursed Wood and pictured him having a cynical laughing spell.

Splashing cold water on his head and face made him feel better—but not much. He saw his pale face in a tarnished mirror. His legs felt as if he had run five miles as a member on his high school track team. Bud Johnson leaned heavily against a wall trying to figure out all that had happened. The full impact of his mistake became clear to him. The plane was still at full power in a nosedive. He could have torn the wings off the plane in that dive!

Vic Wood was waiting when he came outside.

I returned your ‘chute. That’s three demerits if you fail to do that. The maneuver is called a full power stall. If you loose air speed with altitude you drop the nose, cut power, gain flying speed, and fly away. Stall near the ground and mother gets a letter.

Wood paused to add, Johnson—Bud, let me repeat, always reduce power when you dive unless some hotshot jockey is about to dust your tail with lead.

Bud merely looked at the man uncertain of his feelings. To his surprise Wood handed him a cold bottle of coke and walked away. Bud rubbed the cold glass over his face as he watched the man disappear inside a building.

Chapter 3

Cadet Bud Johnson sat alone on a cot ignoring ‘first call’ for the evening meal. His legs still felt weak and his stomach felt empty. His eyes burned and felt irritated. His father would have loved to see him now. He no longer cared if he was washed out. He did not want to ever repeat what he endured today. Maybe the infantry would not be so bad? He could shoot a rifle well enough to drop birds in flight. Muddy battlefields could not be worse than getting the hell scared out of him in an airplane out of control. Dropping backwards thousands of feet in the air was definitely not a carnival ride! A sour taste still filled his mouth.

He sat remembering being an only child he had learned to live with loneliness. It meant teaching himself to handle problems that life handed out. His grandfather was the only person he ever felt comfortable with. He smiled recalling the man’s aged face.

The smile faded when he thought of Tony. He recalled he had met Tony the first day at the Army Air Induction Center. He liked the Italian right away and Tony became a substitute for a brother that he had never had.

Tony was a better Ping-Pong player, but then he was always better at everything. They went to a movie when they were not flying or assigned to some lowly detail. He remembered watching Tony peel dead flesh from a hand after he had been forced to peel potatoes for two days. He wondered how Tony had been able to hold a hard metal control stick that a Stearman demanded to fly?

Cadets in training were considered lower than the lowest private and subject to over-jealous corporals and sergeants, who seemed to get sadistic enjoyment out of bossing and harassing men who might someday be called an officer and gentleman. Bud remembered the other thing that sent him, along with a dozen cadets, to this advanced training field.

That day it was raining and dark clouds hung over the airfield in heavy layers at fifteen hundred feet. No one saw two small bi-planes dart out of the clouds less than fifty yards apart. Witnesses saw only one orange fireball concealing two Stearman airplanes and four men. His friend, Tony Malazzi, was one of two cadets and two instructors killed. Bud sat and shook his head remembering how a flag draped casket was sent home to Tony’s parents. What could be inside? There was nothing found at the wreckage site except small metal pieces and a wheel a half-mile away in a farmer’s cornfield.

Bud recalled he had to fly over the crash site the next day. Skies had cleared and a dark crater with a ring of burned ground was near the end of a farmer’s field.

Two days later he was on an Army bus headed for Maxwell Field, Alabama. It was the Army’s quick cover-up. He suspected the loss of two instructors could also be the reason, but he really didn’t give a rat’s ass. One place was as miserable as the next. It was what he had volunteered for.

His mother’s letter asking why he never mentioned his friend Tony was never answered. He also vowed he would never become that close to another person.

A cadet entered the barracks and saw Bud. Last call for chow. Better get moving.

Thanks.

He was the only person in the chow line. Bud declined an offer of chili. A greasy smell of frying chicken almost sent him outside the mess hall. He put a piece of lemon cake and a bottle of milk on a metal tray, and then found an empty table. The day’s events had definitely placed him on shaky ground. The decision to enlist in the infantry was certainly an option in his unclear mind. Clarence Johnson was sure of one thing—there would never be a returning home to his father’s ridicule. Still he had thirty three hours of flying time now, and the feeling he got while flying was hard to describe. He remembered watching hawks sail effortlessly above Virginia hills at Grandfather Mercer’s farm. He felt both thrilled and guilty shooting pheasants that shot straight up into the air when the dog flushed them from cover. He smiled thinking how Grandfather Mercer had bragged to neighbors of his grandson’s expert shooting. But he knew it was not all bragging. Strangely he had developed the ability to shoot ahead of speeding birds just enough so that the bird flew into the shot. If Wood give him the ‘ax’ maybe he would go to the farm and help his ailing grandfather. The war effort needed food.

Cadet Bud Johnson was surprised to see Flight Instructor Vic Wood waiting by N-151 the next morning. He pointed to the port wing. They fixed it last night.

Bud paused to see a new glass cover on the left wing light. Wood silently evaluated the young man’s simple nod in recognition. Bud made a required walk around the plane more alert to any flaw. He found none and buckled on a parachute.

Wood climbed into the rear seat and Johnson fastened a front seatbelt mindful of the still obnoxious smell. The odor now was tempered by smells of a strong disinfectant. Without being told he began a pre-flight instrument check.

The day’s training went in a routine manner with no surprises. Bud Johnson felt his body tensions ease slightly. He made a one-bounce landing but caught the ship quickly. He taxied the AT-6 toward an exit ramp at the end of the runway. Without warning the plane lunged forward at full power! The tail lifted and he could hear creaking strains along the frame.

Bud jerked to full alert seeing the end of the runway was less than two hundred feet away! As hard as he struggled to cut power, the more firmly the throttle was held fully open by unseen forces. In milliseconds, he saw his dilemma! His only course to save his life was to try and force the lumbering ship back into the air!

Noise of the engine and wind whipping grass and debris beneath the wings was a nightmare. Bud instinctively grabbed the control stick tighter but felt it already had been pulled back to full capacity. He saw black asphalt runway disappearing rapidly beneath the plane. Desperately he pressed a control stick forward to gain precious speed. He counted to ten then jerked the controls hard into his lap. Amazingly the six thousand-pound airplane rose sluggishly into the air like a wounded bird.

He barely had time to look at the panel but he turned pale when he saw that his airspeed was only forty-five! They were less than half stall speed! The plane was at the mercy of its full power, hanging dangerously on the propeller. He felt backpressure on the stick.

No!

He feared Wood meant to stall the plane into the grassy field six feet beneath them. He screamed curses at the damn fool as he felt his body surging with a rush of adrenaline. Bud felt too damn angry and occupied to be scared. He had to get speed and altitude fast or crash! Bud saw the ground sloped slightly down at the end of the asphalt and reacted quickly. Bud eased the stick forward with the delicate touch of a surgeon. He risked a look at the air speed to see it hovered dangerously at fifty. With a hand firm on the side throttle he kept the stick slightly forward hoping to build air speed before he ran out of space. Then he saw it! A small brick pump station dead ahead. It was less than twelve feet tall but he knew they would never have enough height to fly over it, but to turn would result in a fatal stall.

By instinct, or perhaps benefit of his limited flying experience, Bud pressed left rudder with pressure so gentle it would not break an egg. The silver nose moved slightly but still centered on the brick building. He saw that the speed had increased to sixty-two. He held pressure on the rudder. When the plane was a heartbeat from striking the building, Bud jerked the control stick back hard and the AT-6 cleared a tar roof by a foot!

Without hesitation Bud jammed the stick forward, and was only just able to catch the plane’s forward momentum before it stalled. He heard a chuckle in his headset. He knew he had washed out for not relinquishing control to an instructor—a damn fool who nearly killed him—and still might!

He continued to fly at full power barely above the ground, filling the air with a trail of blowing debris. He felt a wave of excited success when airspeed registered eighty-three. He judged their altitude to now be fifty feet. He could feel cool eyes on the back of his leather flight jacket. He was tempted to punch out the bastard if they ever landed in one piece.

The tower, aware of the cadet’s problem, or perhaps previously warned, cleared all traffic and N-151 made an unopposed landing.

Bud was out of his harness and on the ground waiting for the five-foot seven instructor.

Just what in the hell was that all about? That damn-ass stunt could have killed us!

Vic Wood pointed to a clipboard in his hand and said, You just made your first required short-field takeoff, Cadet Johnson.

Wood walked away carrying a parachute before the startled cadet could speak. Bud was hardly aware of the small group of people that had witnessed the near disaster. He slung his parachute over a shoulder and walked disgusted to a hanger.

Instructor Wood checked out the required flight report and walked the thousand feet to an Officer’s Lounge. He accepted his usual drink from a bartender and slipped into a booth at the far end of the dimly lit room. He looked into the amber drink and felt his eyes begin to burn. It had become a daily ritual—one he was not proud of.

He saw faces. They were fuzzy but when he saw backs he recognized each one. No human form is the same. He knew men by round or square shoulders. Shape of necks and heads. The way a man held his head and upper torso. The sound of a voice or laugh. Yes, he remembered every one and could pick them out from a crowd on New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

Some sent him letters after they went over seas. Some thanked him. Two of his cadets had become aces before—. The letters don’t come any more. Vic Wood gulped the fiery liquid down in a single motion.

Chapter 4

Bud Johnson joined thirty cadets in a classroom for what was billed as ground school. A variety of instructors taught navigation, map reading, course plotting, and predicting weather. Bud was not upset over the change when he learned classes would last three days before they would return to flying.

A tall cadet sat down next to Bud on the first afternoon.

In a friendly voice he said, How’s it going?

Bud nodded and said, Holding on.

The man laughed. Bud read the name Clemet on his blouse.

Clemet said, If they let us out in time, there is a John Wayne playing at the Post Theater.

Ah, no thanks.

Don’t like John? The one-man savior of our country?

Bud smiled. He is okay. Going to get some shut eye.

Clemet turned away as a new instructor rapped for attention.

Gentlemen, I am happy to inform you two men in this group scored a perfect one hundred percent on the navigation test. Cadets Zalinsky and Johnson. Congratulations. If you don’t make it in flight school, bomber command is always in need of navigators. It is a commission either way.

He felt eyes of classmates on him but Bud Johnson knew he would never fly in a bomber. They were too slow, too big, and heard they drew ack-ack fire like bees in a clover field.

He thought about his instructor, uncertain what to think of his flying future. The last time was almost a disaster, but he had to admit it had the desired affect. No emergency could be more real!

After class ended Bud walked alone back to his barracks. He knew he had unanswered letters due his mother. He also knew he could not write a sensible line tonight not knowing what his future would be when he met Vic Wood tomorrow. Bud changed direction and went to the post Rec center instead. He played Ping-Pong until curfew.

The next day all cadets were ordered to wear Class A uniforms and parade for a group of visiting congressmen. In the afternoon a thunderstorm swept across the field canceling all flying activity. Bud joined the eleven cadets he had come to this field with, for indoor calisthenics. After the exercising was over, he headed to a shower room. As he entered, he overheard two men discussing his short field narrow escape, but stopped abruptly when he joined them in a shower.

Thirty minutes later an auditorium was filled with naked men standing in long lines. Bud Johnson stood buck-ass naked behind a dozen cadets. At the head of the line a soldier stood holding a surgical needle as the men advanced. Each cadet was inoculated on his upper arm while a man in a finger-length white frock coat watched. When a cadet fainted, the man in white moved quickly. The unconscious man’s entire inoculation was finished in seconds. Several men gave a nervous laugh. At the end of the line another doctor checked each man’s external cavities. Bud felt more disgusted than embarrassed. He had become a nameless number without rights or voice. He felt like nothing more than a chunk of government meat. He was a play toy for sadist men who had just received their first stripes. One cadet had slugged a mouthy corporal who more than deserved what he got. The cadet was the Army’s newest infantry soldier that afternoon.

The evening was a rest time for men who had received vaccinations. Bud lay on his cot listening to three cadets talking at the next bed. One was proudly displaying a picture of his girl friend back home.

She was our May Queen. I was captain of the football team.

How did your team do?

We lost the big one. Our best running back broke his leg the week before.

A man said, Football can be dangerous!

Another laughed and said, Almost like short field takeoffs!

The three laughed until Bud spoke in a clear voice, Try it sometime. Try to miss that shithouse.

The three men stopped and viewed each other with guilty looks. The man who occupied the next bed said, Sorry, Johnson. The joke has gone too far.

All listened when Bud said, Get a firm hold on your ass when it comes your turn. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get Instructor Wood.

I said we’re sorry.

One of the cadets whispered, Johnson is becoming a loner. I have trouble figuring that guy out.

Another said, He is scared shitless like the rest of us. He’ll be okay in time.

Bud put on a shirt and walked outside. The Alabama sky was filled with starry jewels. He thought of his friend Tony, maybe up there looking down. He forced the thought out of his mind. He felt he had become a punching bag long enough for this damn army.

The guys brag about a girl back home. They would have another laugh if they knew the only female back home interested in him was his mother. Most of his summers had been spent with his grandfather in Virginia. Winter meant school and that meant study. He was determined to be more than a clerk in his father’s store. He had aced the air corps entrance exams and it had almost separated his parents when his mother agreed to sign his enlistment paper.

There was one girl in Virginia. Her family owned through-bred horses. She had invited him to go riding several times. He felt exhilaration flying over open fields with brute animal power under him. He helped cleaning stalls when he had time.

He remembered once she confronted him while they rested the horses at a small stream.

Why do you ignore me, Clarence? she asked. It was a question he anticipated.

He recalled his answer, Because I have nothing to offer. It is best we don’t see each other again.

And they never did.

He silently asked himself what he had to offer any one. He couldn’t even please his own father. A seventy-year-old man grieving for a lost wife was the closest thing he knew as a father. It was Grandfather Mercer who taught him to drive using an ancient Ford tractor and a 1935 Hudson that bounced over rutted county roads trailing a cloud of blue smoke. Mercer taught him how to shoot a .22cal. rifle when he was ten. At eleven he could knock a blackbird off a rail fence at a hundred feet. He remembered how his grandfather had bragged at the general store that his grandson could plow a straight furrow at twelve. He knew he missed the man more than his own father. The barracks was full of sleeping men when he returned.

Blackman, the barracks sergeant, sensed that Cadet Johnson was gaining a reputation for being a loner in the short time he had been at Maxwell. Other cadets paid Bud little attention that morning when he sat at their table to eat breakfast.

Bud Johnson ate alone with his thoughts, expecting Wood would ax him today. Maybe he would try Canada. He heard they were looking for pilots for the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Vic Wood was not at the airplane when Bud arrived at seven thirty. A thick haze that covered the far end of the field did not hinder the activity of men and machines. Bud stood in the cool morning air waiting until Buck, a member of the ground crew, informed him that Wood was in his office.

Cadet Bud Johnson felt the need to get the matter settled. He found the door closed to Wood’s office. His knock went ignored. Johnson