The Hunters Read Online Free Page B

conversation as long as he was able to. The others would get to Cleve soon enough. Finally, it was over. As Cleve left the building, he noticed for the first time that the flag was at half mast. He heard some ships go over, high, and looked up into the metallic sky for them. He could not see them, however. He found a ride going to the barracks area as the cold late afternoon came upon the field.
    That night at the club everybody was there. Colonel Imil liked them all together. He knew that men could not think in such clamor, but only feel the warmth of shoulders against their own. It looked like a lumberjack camp. No two pilots were dressed alike. There were overcoats, leather jackets, woolen sweaters, and even a few plaid shirts. The room was a small one, filled with smoke and shouting. Beer cans and glasses were strewn on the tables. Imil was in the middle of it, and next to him Colonel Moncavage, the group commander. Moncavage was wearing a fur hat with the ear flaps tied together on top of it. He carried a .38 snub-nose revolver in a shoulder holster, and a shining leather bandoleer studded with the brass butts of cartridges. Imil let out a bellow upon seeing Cleve. He waved him to his side and threw a great arm about his shoulders.
    â€œHey, Monk!” he shouted above the noise.
    Moncavage turned.
    â€œCome on over here. I want you to meet a real fighter pilot, Cleve Connell.”
    â€œHow do you do?” the colonel said, shaking hands. He had been on a staff for some years before returning to command, and was still a figure of propriety.
    â€œThis is one of my old boys from Panama,” Imil continued. “One of the best, too, eh, Cleaver?”

    â€œWell, I . . .”
    â€œI mean it, Monk,” Imil confirmed, “one of the best.”
    Moncavage nodded, smiling wanly.
    â€œDamned good to see you,” Imil said. He pounded emphatically on Cleve’s back. “I’ve been expecting you. Want to get yourself some MIGs, eh?”
    â€œIf they don’t get me first.”
    â€œStill a comedian,” Imil cried, grinning. “If they don’t get you first. Listen, you bastard, I know you. You’ll eat them up. You’ll hit the glory road here, Cleaver, believe me.”
    Despite the mauling, a glow of pleasure rose in Cleve. It was good to be so cordially taken in. He let himself feel nothing but that.
    â€œA gunnery champ, too, Monk, on top of it,” Imil was saying. “Good eye and a fine pilot. We’re damned lucky to get him.”
    â€œDid you just come in today?” Moncavage asked.
    â€œYes, sir. This afternoon.”
    â€œIt’s good to have you. What are you drinking?”
    â€œBeer would be fine,” Cleve said.
    The colonel shouted toward the crowded bar, upon which at least twenty men were sitting, and three cans were quickly passed back to him.
    â€œOne thing we have here is plenty to drink,” Imil grinned. “It’s not much of a war otherwise, but what can we do? It’s the only war we’ve got.”
    He treated everything with the kind of enthusiasm associated with sport. Cleve had never been able to feel very close to him, partly because of that. He was unable to share the attitude, which regarded life as only a continuing game. It seemed more impossible than ever just now.

    Soon they were all standing on the tables, drinking and singing. Cans clattered to the floor. There were conflicts of shouting and laughter. Glasses were broken. Cleve noticed a few pilots he knew and spent some time circulating among them, exchanging greetings above the noise. All the others were strangers to him. Even the rosiest-faced of the youngsters looked like veterans, though, in layers of heavy clothing, with pistols hung from their hips or under their arms. He overheard two of them talking about some major. He had been an ace in the last war and an instructor in the training command afterward. He had over three thousand hours