The Hunters (3 page)

“The next one is due to leave here in,” he looked at his watch, “thirty-five minutes.” He turned to Cleve. “Are you the one who's going to Kimpo, Captain?”

“That's right.”

“You can catch it just outside, on the road.”

“Thanks.”

Cleve sat down on one of the benches near the counter to begin an uncomfortable wait. He had meant to ask how long a ride it would be, but he suddenly felt it did not make any difference. He listened to pieces of conversation. Everybody seemed to be on the way back to Japan. In Japan, everybody had been going back to the States. He was moving alone against this tide. It was always that way, he reflected, the feeling of arriving late, after everything was over.

When half an hour had passed, he walked outside. There was no bus yet. He waited for five minutes, bundled against the wind. The warmth soon left him. A numbing cold penetrated the soles of his shoes and seemed to reach the bone. Finally, a truck appeared with a small wooden sign that said KIMPO wired to its radiator. He took his bags and threw them up over the tailgate. Then he went to sit in the cab with the driver. He was the only passenger.

They left the airfield, crossed a trestle bridge, and drove along the outskirts of Seoul. Everything seemed dirty and poor. The unfinished wood of the houses was blackened, and even the snow was gray on the roofs. It was a bleak, merciless time of the year.
Ragged children trailed begging after soldiers. The trees were bare, and outside the city the rice paddies were frozen. A few old men had chopped holes in the ice of the river to fish.

Cleve removed his gloves and lit a cigarette. There was not much taste to it, only a thin sensation of air that did not have the chill of crystal. He sat smoking as they jarred along. The road climbed and traveled an embankment overlooking an industrial section. Then it was lined with stunted trees for a way, before it emerged in open country.

“How far is it to Kimpo?” Cleve asked.

The driver shrugged. He had a plump, dull face framed in long sideburns.

“Fifteen miles, maybe,” he said.

“Is the road this bad all the way?”

“It's about the same.”

“Do you ever say ‘sir'?”

The driver looked at him.

“Yes, sir,” he said briefly.

The drive took three quarters of an hour. At the end they passed through a small, impoverished town, which was Kimpo. The airfield was just beyond it. The guard at the gate waved them through. Cleve had the driver take him to the wing headquarters. He got off there. It was a low brick building on the edge of the flying area. The nearest fighters were in sandbag revetments not fifty yards away, showing their clipped tails above the level of the bags, like dorsal fins.

Inside the headquarters it was reasonably warm. He unbuttoned his coat and took off his gloves, stuffing them into the pockets. A sergeant looked up from his typewriter.

“Can I help you, Captain?”

“I'm reporting in.”

“Do you have copies of your orders?”

Cleve produced them. The sergeant read them hurriedly.

“You're Captain Connell?” he asked.

“That's right.”

“Let me check with the adjutant,” he said, leaving his desk.

He returned shortly. Cleve would have to wait for a few minutes, he explained. The adjutant was busy. Cleve nodded. He stood by the stove, idly, his thoughts a vague flurry of the journey that was now all behind him.

He became aware of a familiar sound in the background and turned quickly to the window to watch. A mission was taking off. He saw the first ships moving evenly across a visible length of the runway. Two at a time they went, leader and wingman, booming down the flat strip and then lifting easily up. The thin, dirty panes of glass before him rattled. Two more appeared, then two more, and two by two, in fierce majesty, trailing streams of black smoke, until Cleve felt impelled to try to count them. Colonel Imil was leading, north to the Yalu. A second squadron followed. Cleve watched until the final pair of ships faded in the distance, leaving silence behind them.

He knew Colonel Imil, the wing commander. He knew that monumental head and walk like a boxing champion. Dutch Imil, the grinning football player even after three teeth had been knocked out of his mouth one afternoon, the fourteen-victory ace of the second war, the first of the jet pilots, the golden boy, no longer really a boy, of the air force. Everybody who had seen him fly said that he was reckless, took too many chances, that sooner or later he was going to kill himself. He never did, though. He killed other men, but never himself. One rainy morning in
Panama—Cleve had flown with him that day—he took sixteen ships up for a formation show over Balboa when the ceiling was only seven hundred feet. He lost two of them in the overcast, slung off against the mountains.

“The only thing a fighter pilot needs is confidence,” Imil had said at the briefing, “and I've got enough for all of us.”

Everybody had stories about him. They were as well known as old jokes. One Cleve had heard a long time before and never forgotten. Someone had told him that Imil had once been to bed with four different women in the same night. He was a brute, a big man. He was the kind of a man who could eat two steaks at a sitting, a man who found the normal world undersized in the shadow of his imposing body.

Cleve turned from the window and walked over to the stove again. He stood there, palming his hands to the heat. There was a strange mood here, he felt. He could not be sure what it was, an ill-fitting sobriety perhaps. He could see through an open door into the operations section. There was a large map of the peninsula stapled on the wall in there. It was covered, especially in the vicinity of the front, with military hieroglyphics of units and positions. The usual block of photographs was on the wall, too, in order of rank: General Muehlke, Far East Air Forces; General Breck, Fifth Air Force; then Imil; and lastly one he did not recognize, probably the group commander. Every office in the headquarters was decorated with that set, he guessed. For a few unreal minutes, a feeling that he had been in Korea much longer than two or three hours was generated in him. He remembered so many other headquarters, all alike.

“Cleve!” he heard someone shout.

He turned. A familiar face smiled at him, bright with cold.
Carl Abbott, wearing major's leaves. He seized Cleve's hand heartily.

“Hello, Carl. I didn't know you were over here.”

“I haven't been long. Not as long as it seems, anyway. God, it's good to see you, Cleve. I heard you were on the way over. I've been on the lookout for you. Dutch has, too.”

“How is he, the same as ever?”

“Exactly the same. He doesn't change. He's up on the mission right now.”

“I saw it take off a few minutes ago.”

“It's a routine sweep. He has blood in his eye today, though. Everybody has.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's been a bad week,” Abbott said in a strange, almost eager way. “I don't suppose you've heard, but yesterday we lost Tonneson.”

Cleve listened to the story. Tonneson had thirteen MIGs to his credit, more than any other man. On the mission the previous day, he and his wingman had attacked a formation of twelve, and he had shot one down at the start, his thirteenth victory. As he slid into position behind another he was hit himself, solidly, just behind the cockpit. His wingman had stayed with him, orbiting, as he went down, calling to him to bail out, until the ship hit the ground and exploded. Abbott told it with an odd fluency, like a relish.

“It shook Dutch,” he was talking faster. “I've known him a long time, and I can tell when he's nervous. He wasn't the only one either. Tonny was our top man. All the damned kids got the clanks when they heard about it. Well, you know how they are, anyway.”

Cleve nodded. He knew how sensitive the common nervous system could be. He had felt it already, the subtle currents. Abbott, he noticed, seemed uneasy, unlike himself.

“We need you, Cleve. We need experience. Most of the old hands have gone, and we've been getting nothing but kids right out of flying school and gunnery. Eight of them came in last week. The week before that we got two men who had no jet time at all.”

The flush from the fresh air had left his face, and a dull cast replaced it. There were heavy lines under his eyes. He looked old. Cleve could remember him as a young captain, five years before. They talked for a while longer, mostly about the enemy, what surprisingly good ships they flew and what a lousy war it was. The major repeated that despairingly several times.

“What do you mean, lousy?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Abbott said distractedly, “it's just no good. I mean what are we fighting for, anyway? There's nothing for us to win. It's no good, Cleve. You'll see.”

He trailed off uncomfortably, sorry he had started on this theme.

Abbott had been a hero once, in Europe in another war, but the years had worked an irreversible chemistry. He was heavier now, older, and somewhere along the way he had run out of compulsion. Everyone in the wing knew it. He aborted from too many missions. The airplanes he flew always developed some mechanical trouble, and he could be counted on to complete only the easiest flights. Colonel Imil had put him in group operations and was arranging a transfer to Fifth Air Force Headquarters. Everyone knew that, too.

It was part of the unashamed past for him to talk to Cleve,
who had known him only before, and he extended the conversation as long as he was able to. The others would get to Cleve soon enough. Finally, it was over. As Cleve left the building, he noticed for the first time that the flag was at half mast. He heard some ships go over, high, and looked up into the metallic sky for them. He could not see them, however. He found a ride going to the barracks area as the cold late afternoon came upon the field.

That night at the club everybody was there. Colonel Imil liked them all together. He knew that men could not think in such clamor, but only feel the warmth of shoulders against their own. It looked like a lumberjack camp. No two pilots were dressed alike. There were overcoats, leather jackets, woolen sweaters, and even a few plaid shirts. The room was a small one, filled with smoke and shouting. Beer cans and glasses were strewn on the tables. Imil was in the middle of it, and next to him Colonel Moncavage, the group commander. Moncavage was wearing a fur hat with the ear flaps tied together on top of it. He carried a .38 snub-nose revolver in a shoulder holster, and a shining leather bandoleer studded with the brass butts of cartridges. Imil let out a bellow upon seeing Cleve. He waved him to his side and threw a great arm about his shoulders.

“Hey, Monk!” he shouted above the noise.

Moncavage turned.

“Come on over here. I want you to meet a real fighter pilot, Cleve Connell.”

“How do you do?” the colonel said, shaking hands. He had been on a staff for some years before returning to command, and was still a figure of propriety.

“This is one of my old boys from Panama,” Imil continued. “One of the best, too, eh, Cleaver?”

“Well, I . . .”

“I mean it, Monk,” Imil confirmed, “one of the best.”

Moncavage nodded, smiling wanly.

“Damned good to see you,” Imil said. He pounded emphatically on Cleve's back. “I've been expecting you. Want to get yourself some MIGs, eh?”

“If they don't get me first.”

“Still a comedian,” Imil cried, grinning. “If they don't get you first. Listen, you bastard, I know you. You'll eat them up. You'll hit the glory road here, Cleaver, believe me.”

Despite the mauling, a glow of pleasure rose in Cleve. It was good to be so cordially taken in. He let himself feel nothing but that.

“A gunnery champ, too, Monk, on top of it,” Imil was saying. “Good eye and a fine pilot. We're damned lucky to get him.”

“Did you just come in today?” Moncavage asked.

“Yes, sir. This afternoon.”

“It's good to have you. What are you drinking?”

“Beer would be fine,” Cleve said.

The colonel shouted toward the crowded bar, upon which at least twenty men were sitting, and three cans were quickly passed back to him.

“One thing we have here is plenty to drink,” Imil grinned. “It's not much of a war otherwise, but what can we do? It's the only war we've got.”

He treated everything with the kind of enthusiasm associated with sport. Cleve had never been able to feel very close to him, partly because of that. He was unable to share the attitude, which regarded life as only a continuing game. It seemed more impossible than ever just now.

Soon they were all standing on the tables, drinking and singing. Cans clattered to the floor. There were conflicts of shouting and laughter. Glasses were broken. Cleve noticed a few pilots he knew and spent some time circulating among them, exchanging greetings above the noise. All the others were strangers to him. Even the rosiest-faced of the youngsters looked like veterans, though, in layers of heavy clothing, with pistols hung from their hips or under their arms. He overheard two of them talking about some major. He had been an ace in the last war and an instructor in the training command afterward. He had over three thousand hours and
takusan
jet time.

“But, you know,” one of them said, “he's not too good at, well, at judging the space-time relationship in the air. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not exactly.”

“What I'm trying to say is that he can't fly.”

“He won't fight, either. I don't know which is worse.”

“The son of a bitch. And I get scheduled with him almost every time he goes on a mission.”