| OCR Text |
Show Flying - 58 John Henry wanders about in the heat of the Texas afternoon. There is always sick-call. Beds with cool white sheets, tender nurses. Who always turn out to be captains, or maybe majors. Proferrers of professional tenderness and paid-for sympathy. War maidens, givers of pills, vestal virgins to the enlisted men and whores to their officers. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. Don't stick the thermometer too far up my ass, ma'am. Please. O'Connell kicks a wrench along the ground, swearing revenge and predicting destruction. Thompson polishes a headlight. With long nimble fingers and a piece of emery cloth, Arkwright cleans the rust from a lug-wrench, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching O'Connell. "How's it going, Tex?" says John Henry, wandering over. "Good day to sit in the shade," says Tex. But his eyes look away. Every morning now Biggs makes it a point of honor to talk to O'Connell and encourage his reform. He praises the neatness of O'Connell's uniform, asks questions about radio-teletype operation, smiles while O'Connell stands with teeth clenched, eyes to the front, hands quivering at his sides, bound by the laws and the traditions. Yes, sir. No, sir. After a few days it becomes a regular feature of the morning and the platoon comes to expect it and grows fond of it. |
