OCR Text |
Show Flying - 38 Soon there are four trucks and about thirty or forty firefighters, running around with hoses, axes, foam extinguishers, breathing apparatus, and even stretchers. An argument develops between one sergeant who insists that since it's a generator, it's an electrical fire, and they have to use foam, and another who wants to bring his hoses into play. A crowd of lesser firemen forms around them, while the power unit continues to burn bright. John Henry feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find the chaplain standing behind him, still holding his glass jar. "Was anybody hurt?" he says. "No sir, just killed a nigger," says John Henry, suddenly irritated by the Southern drawl, but he turns his head as he says it, and the chaplain misses the full effect of the quotation, and only catches the general tone of disillusionment and disaffection. "What was that, soldier?" he says, not unkindly. "He said there wasn't nobody hurt, sir," says Arkwright, looking at John Henry with a frown. "She blew up, but there wasn't nobody near enough to get hurt." Since no spiritual help to ease the pain of wounds seems to be needed, the chaplain strides away, glass jar in hand. A member of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes at Texas Western, he feels a little out of place here, where it seems somehow more difficult than it was at school to Justify God's |