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Show Flying - 63 in the barracks. "Poor bastard didn't know if he should courtmartial Joe or apologize to him." And now every time Lieutenant Biggs comes near, O'Connell turns pale and begins to quiver uncontrollably. After one morning formation when Biggs tried his usual approach and O'Connell stared at him white and shaking for fully five seconds before answering with the utmost military courtesy, Biggs has tried to stay away from him as much as possible. On Fridays the Army serves fish. John Henry waits in line for his portion of Southern-fried perch and sweats. He watches O'Connell go through the line ahead of him, smiling at the KP's who dole out his food. He's coordinated, is O'Connell. A deft and subtle movement of wrist and elbow keeps half a canned peach from slipping out of its compartment and mingling with the spinach. A gentle touch. It will all mix eventually, mother used to say. But not yet, not yet, not if I can help it. The mess-hall is warm and humid and it smells of the grease-trap some unlucky KP cleaned this morning and of fried fish and of sweat. Tray in both hands, hat tucked underneath his arm, John Henry advances slowly toward the steaming |
