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Show Flying - 222 A fine-looking man-tall, thin, with silver-white hair and a deeply tanned face. Full of the natural and aristocratic dignity that comes with a lifetime of commanding men, Freneau advances slowly along the line, asking this man where he comes from and that one how long he's been in the army. A leader viith a personal touch. Makes a man feel like somebody cares. And now Freneau is done with the third squad and is coning back to start at the beginning of the fourth. John Henry looks down at himself. He is easily the sharpest-looking soldier in the third platoon, in the freshly pressed and starched fatigues he has saved for this day. His boots shine bright, his belt buckle is dazzling, his nylon scarf is the pure and unfaded orange of the signal corps and shines out at his throat like a tropical flower. It is the kind of fall day that gives hope of the return of spring and John Henry is grateful for the feel of the warn wind as he stands and waits for the General. Freneau, after a quick word to the squad leader, walks steadily and painfully along, glancing at each nan without stopping, obviously tired. But he sees John Henry and stops. He looks hin up and down, from the newly washed hat to the shining boots, and alnost smiles. Here is a real soldier. "Where are you ^fr om, s„„ovn,?9i"i sqaayv^s wtihee old General with a |
