“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Inasmuch as the captain’s tone of voice clearly implied that the head wind was obviously the pilot’s fault, a dereliction of duty that was inconveniencing him and seriously interfering with the war effort, the pilot did not, as he had intended to do, inform him that they would land in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Instead, he walked aft and leaned over the Army pilot, frowning sympathetically at his sick pallor and sunken eyes. He touched and then shook his shoulder, The man did not stir. Then he caught the Army pilot’s breath. He chuckled, and felt around the mailbags until he found what he was looking for. It was a quart bottle of Scotch. And it was empty. The pilot reburied the bottle and then, smiling, made his way forward to the cockpit. “Charley,” he said, “we may have a small problem at Alameda, unloading our passengers.”
“How’s that?”
“The Army guy? He’ dead drunk. I found an empty quart of Scotch. S “No shit?”
“We didn’t really have a fuel problem,” the pilot said.
“We could have got him to breathe into the tanks. We could make it to Kansas City on alcohol fumes.”
“The brass know?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” the copilot said. “Yeah,” the pilot said.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
An hour and twenty minutes later, the Catalina touched down, none too smoothly, on San Francisco Bay. “I’m glad we were a little light on fuel,” the copilot said. “Fuck you, Charley,” the pilot said. Two boats met the seaplane, a glossy motor launch for the passengers, the other a less ornate work boat to take the mail and tow the aircraft to its mooring. The BUS HIPS brass, as they obviously thought was befitting their station in life, were sent ashore alone in the motor launch. The pilot told them that since the Army officer was ill, he would take care of him. When the brass had motored away, he went back to the Army pilot.
He was awake, sitting up on the mailbags with blankets wrapped around his shoulders and wearing an aviator’s leather jacket over his tunic.
He was shivering.
Malaria, the pilot decided. “Where are we?” the Army captain asked.
“Alameda Naval Air Station,” the pilot said.
“San Francisco. “Well, I guess we have cheated death again,” the Army captain said. “As soon as we get these mailbags loaded in the boat, we’ll take you ashore. “Where’s the brass?”
“They’re gone,” the pilot said. “Good,” the Army captain said.
“I somehow got the feeling they didn’t approve of me.”
“Is there anything I can get you?” the pilot asked. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle around here anywhere, would you? “No, but I know where we can get you one once you’re ashore,” the pilot said.
“Where are you headed in the States?”
“Washington,” the Army captain said. “I’ll take you to base cps and arrange for another flight,” the pilot said.
“I gather you’ve got a priority?”
“Do I ever,” the captain said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Why not?”
“How come the pilot’s wings and the cavalry insignia?” The captain looked coldly at him for a moment. “Nosy bastard, aren’t you? ” “Curious,” the pilot said with a smile. The Army officer was drunk.
People got belligerent when they were drunk. “The way they’re running this war,” the captain said, “is that when you run out of airplanes, they put you on a horse. And then, when you have to eat the horse, they find something else for you to do.”
“You were in the Philippines? The captain nodded. “Bad?”
“Very bad, Lieutenant, very bad indeed,” the Army captain said.
The pilot gave him his hand and pulled the captain to his feet.
“I’d like to keep the blankets for a while,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Sure,” the pilot said.
They loaded the Army captain into the work boat. Then he sat huddled under the blankets while the mailbags were loaded aboard and the plane was towed to its mooring. After that the work boat delivered them to the amphibious ramp, where a pickup waited. When they walked into base ops, the Army captain made an effort to straighten up, but he did not remove the blankets from his shoulders. Then he spotted a pay telephone. “Can I mooch a nickel?” he asked. “I think they would prefer you report in,” the pilot said. “Fuck ’em,” the captain said matter-of-factly.