OCR Text |
Show Flying - 94 nods his head and shuffles his feet with pleasure when they say something to him. The backbone of the army. Why don't you poison the bastards. I would. Breakfast is in the air-conditioned, glass-walled mess-hall, with a choice of eggs fried or scrambled, pancakes or french toast, bacon or sausage, orange or tomato juice. They are well insulated from the terrors of the desert, these Air Force men. John Henry finds an empty seat across the table from Tucson John Sutter. "How's it going, sarge?" he says kindly to the old man. "Reckon I'll survive," says Tucson John. "How'd you like the ride across the Mojave yesterday?" "First time I've ever been in a sandstorm. I guess I was a bit scared," says John Henry. "Sandstorm? Shit, boy, that wasn't no sandstorm. You should see a real storm on the Mojave, when it gits darker'n up a miner's asshole and you have to crawl up behind a rock and hide, and dig yourself out when it's all over. If you ain't choked to death in the meantime, that is," says Tucson John spreading ketchup and A-l sauce over his fried eggs. Arkwright leans over from the next table. "Hey, sarge, has them three wives of yours caught up with you yet?" "You take my advice, son," says the old sergeant, who likes Arkwright's Oklahoma accent, "don't never trust no |