The Last Bridge

“It’s human to sweat a little,” McKuen said cheerfully.

“What about you, Lieutenant? Do you sweat?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t show it.”

McKuen said, “There ain’t much that can harm you after you’re dead, darlin’.” The plane slid between layers of wispcloud, cutting off the star shine. The plane became a raft isolated on a black sea. There was the smell of rain, but no water on the glass. McKuen’s face was reflected faintly in the window. Another break in the lower cloud deck showed nothing but darkness; the clouds sealed up once again. Shannon’s hand moved to rotate the stabilizer wheel back a fraction of a revolution. Before McKuen’s feet the rudder pedals moved slightly, one in and one out, under Shannon’s direction. Engines throbbed monotonously. Shannon said, “I’m getting spooky.”

“You’ll steady down.”

“Maybe.”

“Look at it this way,” said McKuen. “If you get killed, at least you won’t have died of anything serious.”

“You are very funny, Lieutenant.”

McKuen looked sharply at him. After that he said nothing until, with the clouds pinching in on them from above and below, he said, “Switch on the receiver. I want to get a weather report.”

The earphones crackled and he heard a distant voice: “Tighten up this formation. Jimmy, I want your wingtip in my Goddamn window.”

McKuen said, “Wrong band, Mister,” in a very gentle voice and watched Shannon’s nervous hand twist the radio dials. After a moment he looked at his watch and said, “Ought to be a report about now.”

The radio only blatted landing and takeoff instructions. He listened to it with half his attention and muttered aloud: “Manifold pressure.” He moved the throttles. “Twenty-two hundred rpm — how’s that number two behaving?”

He was remembering a blonde in San Francisco who had left his quarters at 5 a.m., thereby earning for him the silly admiration of his acquaintances. Shannon’s voice broke in:

“I’m as jumpy as a virgin in a men’s room.”

When McKuen made no reply, Shannon said, “I was thinking about getting married before I left the States. Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“And leave my girl a widow?”

“At least she’d have a pension,” McKuen said.

“Do you think women go for Army pilots?”

“Well, now,” McKuen said, with his brogue waxing, “I was after takin’ a survey of seventy-five young ladies on that very question, would you believe it? And seventy-three of them responded the same way. Would you be wantin’ to know what it was they said? They said, ‘Shut up and rape me, darlin’,’ is what they said.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Gee, I wish I’d said that. Hold on.” McKuen’s hand snapped to the radio dial, and he tuned it with slow care. The headset scratched in his ear:

“Typhoon Carlotta has changed course and speed, is now expected to hit the Vietnamese coastline north of Da Nang at approximately oh-six-thirty hours this morning. Repeat, the typhoon is expected to strike the coast near Hué at approximately oh-six-thirty hours this morning. All operational aircraft are ordered to ground at runways of opportunity. All takeoffs after oh-five-thirty hours are canceled by order of...”

McKuen took the headset off and slung it on its hook. He looked at Shannon and said, “What ho.”

Shannon’s face was dour. McKuen said, “What’s your opinion, Mister?”

“I don’t get paid for opinions, Lieutenant. Just follow orders. But if I was to think about it, I might suggest hara-kiri.”

“Very good, Mister. Take the wheel, like a good fellow.” McKuen unstrapped himself, climbed out of the pilot’s seat, and made his way back into the passenger cabin.