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Show Flying - 13 I talked to you and let you talk to me. I let you tell me about your girl and your home in the Texas hills near the Pecos river. I shared cigarettes with you on hot nights in Fort Hood while we sat on the cool red earth outside the barracks and talked. Why pick on me? Go haunt the captain that wouldn't let you go back to Korea to marry her. Go haunt the chaplain that tried to fix you up with a nice Southern white girl from Killeen, Texas. Go haunt the post commander, the adjutant general, the Chief of Staff, the Pentagon. Go haunt the Army, man. Don't follow me. I had no part in it. By the time John Henry regains some measure of control the jeep is nosing through afternoon traffic in Stanton. The heat has reached incredible intensity and now that they are moving slowly all three men are sweating heavily, dark stains spreading down their fatigues, sweat rolling down their faces, puddles forming on the waterproof plastic of the seats. The sun glares viciously off any smooth surface; the steering wheel is too hot to hold comfortably. Texans in air-conditioned Cadillacs and pick-up trucks go by, their cool white faces behind tinted glass staring with mild interest at the three suffering men in the westward-bound jeep. Dark sweat is creeping all round the sergeant's stiff hat and beneath its peak his eyes look more and more glassy. |
