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Show Flying - 97 don't cure. If you get it, they got to do you like they did when I was first in the army. They ream out your pecker with a little thing looks like a corkscrew, only it's got lots of little blades on it. Twice a week." John Henry moans softly and wanders away from the table, clutching himself tenderly. He takes a deep drink of cold water at the fountain by the door and wanders out into the awful heat. Twice a week. Punishment out of all proportion to the crime. Ream out your pecker. Better no sex at all. Ever. About nine o'clock, after everybody's finished with breakfast, they line up the hundred and two trucks of the convoy on a nearby taxi strip and an Air Force tank truck comes to the head of the line, where John Henry's jeep is parked. With the confidence of a man who has done this three or four times a day since the convoy started, John Henry unreels the hose, sticks the nozzle in the jeep's gas tank, and squeezes the handle firmly. The hose kicks like a mule, twists out of his grasp and sprays gasoline all over the back of the jeep before shutting itself off. "Goddamn it, Pierson, can't you do anything right?" says Sergeant Armstrong, wiping a few drops off his boots. "Here, let me see it." The sergeant sticks the nozzle into the mouth of the |