outstretched hands.
‘You sure left me in a jam,’ Madigan complained. He had one of his socks on but couldn’t find the other. ‘The little dark girl came back after you’d left. Vera went crazy. If MM hadn’t been there she would have hospitalized me. Right, MM?’
‘Vera’s okay,’ said MM quietly.
‘Vera’s not just okay,’ said Vince Madigan indignantly. ‘She’s the goods. I told you she’s a sure thing, MM.’
MM didn’t want to hear that Vera was a sure thing. ‘Colonel Dan was looking for you yesterday, Jamie,’ he said to change the subject.
‘In person?’ said Farebrother.
MM nodded. ‘Well, that’s fame,’ said Vince Madigan.
‘I guess he figured you’d gone over the hill,’ said MM. He found Winston quietly gnawing a sock and tossed it back onto the bed without Madigan noticing.
‘My pass didn’t expire until roll call this morning,’ said Farebrother.
‘He said to be sure you knew you were on the board,’ said MM.
Farebrother nodded. It was no surprise to find that he was scheduled to fly. The shortage of pilots was such that Colonel Dan and the rest of the Group HQ officers were flying almost every mission that came along. ‘Operational?’
‘We’re not practising for a fly-by,’ said MM. ‘Who’s coming to eat?’
Farebrother ate with MM—they left Vince Madigan still searching for his sock—and after breakfast they played cards. Farebrother said something about Vera, but MM didn’t encourage further questions. He didn’t want anybody thinking that he had to make do with Vince Madigan’s cast-off girlfriends. There were too many jokes told about Madigan’s women lining up at the main gate, red-eyed and fat-bellied and asking to see the chaplain.
The pilots spent all morning waiting. The bombers were attacking the naval base at Kiel. It was a heavily defended target, but the 220th Fighter Group was assigned to the role of withdrawal support force and wouldn’t be needed until the bombers were on their way home.
The relaxed postures of the flyers were deceptive. Like amateur actors in a bad play, they held books and magazines without reading them, smoked without inhaling, and spoke without listening. Colonel Dan, wearing the short-sleeve khaki shirt he favoured, was standing in the corner, nervously scratching his upper arms, his fingernails leaving red weals. Major Kevin Phelan, Group Operations Officer, was with him. They were having a conversation they’d had many times before.
‘Last year Notre Dame had the greatest football team it’s ever had…begging your pardon, Kevin.’
Major Phelan fingered the nose he’d broken playing for the Fighting Irish, grinned and said, ‘Second greatest.’
‘But I’m not talking talent, I’m talking tactics. I’m talking about Clark Shaughnessy, and what he did for those University of Chicago kids, back in the thirties.’ The Colonel took a quick look at his watch before going on. ‘You’re too young to remember them winding up in the Rose Bowl, having won every last game on the schedule.’
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