The Hunters by James Salter Page A

reality, the enemy falling before him, hung on lengths of sailing tracers. He wanted only his chance, nothing more. Gradually he left the room, traveling with his dreams, heading as he always did to the same place, to the north with its silent seas of air, in which, if he lived, his victory had to be gained.

9
    Major Abbott came around one evening in the long hour just before dusk. He was desperate to talk. There was an urging in him, a hunger, that was greater than he could bear, but it was difficult to say anything. Only a few inane phrases came at first. The houseboy stood by the window, motionless, staring out of it like a dog watching for birds.
    â€œYou get a few lousy breaks,” he finally began, “and they’re down on you. Everybody together. You might touch them or something. This fifty-cent war they’re so proud of. My God, I was fighting a war, a real war, when they were taking grammar, most of them. Spelling!”
    He had held it in for so long that it came out in painful fragments. He sat in his chair like someone applying for a badly needed job. It was impossible, but everything was being taken away from him. His life had been distinguished by only two things, his courage and his skill, but he had found them before he was very old, these precious stones, and when they were admired or spoken of he had known the fulfillment of owning the greatest prizes in the world. Suddenly, though, the past was being counted as nothing, like rescinded currency. What he had had for so long, what he had grown old in possession of, was gone now, sickeningly, and there was nothing else of importance to him, as
with men who have given their lives to their children. It was all ended, the listeners to his stories, the crewmen eager to serve, the respect, the hundred happy terrors and ecstasies of height. He was alone, like a cripple facing the cruelty of running boys. They had no time for him any more as they tested their own keen nerve against each other.
    â€œI’ll be glad to get away,” he said bitterly. “I just can’t take any more, Cleve.”
    â€œYou don’t have a hundred missions.”
    â€œFifty-one. And seventy in Italy last time. Seven kills. Six confirmed. Then you abort a few times because you’ve flown enough to know when a ship’s not the way it should be, and the first thing, they think . . . oh, who gives a damn what they think, anyway.”
    â€œWhy let it bother you? You’re not finished yet. You have another fifty missions to get even.”
    â€œNot me. I’m going to Fifth. I’m all through with my missions.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œTomorrow.”
    â€œSeems pretty sudden,” Cleve said.
    â€œNot to me. I’d go tonight if I could.”
    â€œWho did it? Imil?”
    â€œYes. My old pal Dutch. He was careful to fix it up so that I was requested by Fifth.” He laughed dryly. “To make it look good. To keep himself clean. I don’t care.”
    â€œWhat will you be doing?”
    â€œI’ll be in operations. Not a bad job, either. A colonel’s spot. Maybe even a promotion, just to rub in Imil’s face a little.”
    â€œIt’s all for the best then, in a way.”

    Abbott looked up. He nodded his head reflexively, as if in time to some distant rhythm. He had looked everywhere for reason or relief, and sometimes he had been able to find it, temporarily, as when men achieve that stage of drunkenness at which they comprehend infinities. Suddenly his eyes filled with tears.
    â€œSure. It’s really fine. Only I’d rather be a goddamned lieutenant flying wing, that’s all,” he cried, turning jerkily away. “I’d rather be dead.”
    Cleve took a quick, steadying drink of air. He was always embarrassed by nakedness. He seldom touched anyone physically.
    â€œCarl,” he began.
    Abbott shook like a girl, with brimming, bottomless sobs. The houseboy stared out the