COUNTERS

Chapter 21

It was a dark and sultry night as Steve struggled against time-worn clichés for the opening sentence of his next dispatch. Alone in the squadron building, he tickety-tapped the keys of the typewriter in McNish’s office. The first shift of night fliers had flown the coop -- ten Phantoms, twenty pilots -- and briefings for the next shift hadn’t started yet. McNish was out on a foray for office supplies and cornflakes for the squadron commander, and Steve held the fort all alone.

“Twenty-fvie conters, only seventy-fvie to go,” he typed, then pulled the paper from the typewriter, crumbled it into the trash can and rolled in another sheet.

“Tewnty-five counters—only sventy-five to go.” Damn!

He leaned back in the rolling green government issue office chair, took a sip from a coffee cup with the squadron’s chicken hawk logo on the outside and a layer of fine brown moss on the inside, closed his eyes, nodded his head, and drummed his fingers against the top of the government issue desk. He drew a finger across his upper lip. Hmmm?

He went to the latrine to stare in the mirror and was disappointed because the protomustache was blond -- all blond -- and absolutely invisible to the naked eye from more than two feet away. Maybe with a magnifying glass.

He came back to the desk, ripped out the sheet and rolled in another. He sharpened a pencil and scribbled an abstract pattern on a yellow pad. Then he spent five minutes neating up the laces of his combat boots.

Oops -- he was out of coffee. He took another trip to the coffee bar to drain the last cup and start another pot, then back to the desk. Then, it was time for a latrine visit. He leafed through a magazine in the stall, read an interview with Bob Dylan, and returned to the desk fifteen minutes later. He sat in the chair -- fidgeting right, fidgeting left, drumming his fingers against the desktop, then he leaned forward and placed them on the keys.

“Twenty-five counters, only seventy-five to gi”

The front door opened, and Steve heard two pilots arguing as they came in.

“… not going there, man, I’m sorry, it’s just one of those places I’m not going to mess with.”

“I’m telling you, Karl, I’m short. I’ve got five crews gone to Clark, three people are down with flu, and two just finished their last mission yesterday. I don’t have any choice.”

Steve didn’t need to recognize the voices or hear the name to understand that it was Major Jasper dickering with Sir Walter Scott to get out of a mission.

“I’m sorry, but I’m telling you I’m not going to Tchepone. Look, you can give me a combat proof over Package 1, or something down south, but damned if I’m going to fly over that hellhole. You sent me there last night. I went, and you could practically read a newspaper from the light of the tracers. No more! Never again to Tchepone.”

There was a long silence.

“Well.”

It was a resigned “well” from the throat of Major Scott. It was a “well” that would inevitably be followed by: “Maybe I can replace you with …”

That’s it? Steve was amazed. It’s that easy? Scott didn’t even put up a tussle. What if I said no?

Suddenly, Steve realized that he could say no. It was within the realm of the possible, even the plausible and the probable, that he was free to choose. Free to refuse.

And if he did? What consequences sprang from the actions of a loner? What happened to pilots who refused to join the hunting tribe and celebrate the rituals and play the games and fight the fights of the brethren of the large flying mammals?