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Show Flying - 213 CHAPTER XV Like a reginent of wraiths they rise from the ground beside their cots and begin to grope in the dark. On the cots lies the equipment crisply aligned to delight the General. John Henry washes his face with cold water from the canvas bag that hangs outside the tent, and looks out on the quiet valley. Under his feet the long yellow grass lies matted, wet with a heavy dew. The sun is still behind the mountains that bar the eastern horizon, and the fog lies white and danp everywhere. Today the General is coning. John Henry looks down at .his hands, clenches and unclenches them, flexes the fingers one by one. They don't look like the hands of a strangler. He shuffles back into the tent and begins to dress in the clean and starched fatigues he has saved for today. His most military set, saved since basic training for special occasions, faded, but not torn or threadbare, starched like iron, nametag clean and legible, four-leaf clover patch sewn on tight, gold and black U.S. ARMY over the pocket shining bright, with no loose threads to spoil the effect. He puts it all on carefully, so as not to ruin the creases, over clean new underwear. Olive-drab wool socks, also new, then the boots so carefully shined last night. John Henry laces them with care, then with wide rubber bands blouses |