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  Lowe said, I won’t, closing his eyes, tasting his mouth, seeing her long slim body against his red eyelids, opening his eyes to light and her thigh shaped and falling away into an impersonal fabric. With an effort he might have seen her ankles. Her feet will be there, he thought, unable to accomplish the effort and behind his closed eyes he thought of saying something which would leave his mouth on hers. Oh, God, he thought, feeling that no one had been so sick, imagining that she would say I love you, too. If I had wings, and a scar. . . . To hell with officers, he thought, sleeping again:

  To hell with kee-wees, anyway. I wouldn’t be a goddam kee-wee. Rather be a sergeant. Rather be a mechanic. Crack up, Cadet. Hell, yes, Why not? War’s over. Glad. Glad. Oh, God. His scar: his wings. Last time.

  He was briefly in a Jenny again, conscious of lubricating oil and a slow gracious restraint of braced plane surfaces, feeling an air blast and feeling the stick in his hand, watching bobbing rocker arms on the horizon, laying her nose on the horizon like a sighted rifle. Christ, what do I care? seeing her nose rise until the horizon was hidden, seeing the arc of a descending wing expose it again, seeing her become abruptly stationary while a mad world spinning vortexed about his seat. ‘Sure, what do you care?’ asked a voice and waking he saw Gilligan beside him with a glass of whisky.

  ‘Drink her down, General,’ said Gilligan, holding the glass under his nose.

  ‘Oh, God, move it, move it.’

  ‘Come on, now; drink her down: you’ll feel better. The Loot is up and at ’em, and Mrs Powers. Whatcher get so drunk for, ace?’

  ‘Oh, God, I don’t know,’ answered Cadet Lowe, rolling his head in anguish. ‘Lemme alone.’

  Gilligan said: ‘Come on, drink her, now.’ Cadet Lowe said, Go away passionately.

  ‘Lemme alone; I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Sure you will. Soon as you drink this.’

  ‘I can’t. Go away.’

  ‘You got to. You want I should break your neck?’ asked Gilligan kindly, bringing his face up, kind and ruthless. Lowe eluded him and Gilligan reaching under his body, raised him.

  ‘Lemme lie down,’ Lowe implored.

  ‘And stay here forever? We got to go somewheres. We can’t stay here.’

  ‘But I can’t drink.’ Cadet Lowe’s interior coiled passionately: an ecstasy. ‘For God’s sake, let me alone.’

  ‘Ace,’ said Gilligan, holding his head up, ‘you got to. You might just as well drink this yourself. If you don’t, I’ll put it down your throat, glass and all. Here, now.’

  The glass was between his lips, so he drank, gulping, expecting to gag. But gulping, the stuff became immediately pleasant. It was like new life in him. He felt a kind sweat and Gilligan removed the empty glass. Mahon, dressed except for his belt, sat beside a table. Gilligan vanished through a door and he rose, feeling shaky but quite fit. He took another drink. Water thundered in the bathroom and Gilligan returning said briskly: ‘Atta boy.’

  He pushed Lowe into the bathroom. ‘In you go, ace,’ he added.

  Feeling the sweet bright needles of water burning his shoulders, watching his body slipping an endless silver sheath of water, smelling soap: beyond that was her room, where she was, tall and red and white and black, beautiful. I’ll tell her at once, he decided, sawing his hard young body with a rough towel. Glowing, he brushed his teeth and hair, then he had another drink under Mahon’s quiet inverted stare and Gilligan’s quizzical one. He dressed, hearing her moving in her room. Maybe she’s thinking of me, he told himself, swiftly donning his khaki.

  He caught the officer’s kind, puzzled gaze and the man said:

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Never felt better after my solo,’ he answered, wanting to sing. ‘Say, I left my hat in her room last night,’ he told Gilligan. ‘Guess I better get it.’

  Here’s your hat,’ Gilligan informed him unkindly, producing it.

  ‘Well, then, I want to talk to her. Whatcher going to say about that?’ asked Cadet Lowe, swept and garnished and belligerent.

  ‘Why, sure, General,’ Gilligan agreed readily. ‘She can’t refuse one of the saviours of her country.’ He knocked on her door. ‘Mrs Powers?’

  ‘Yes?’ her voice was muffled.

  ‘General Pershing here wants to talk to you. . . . Sure. . . . All right.’ He turned about, opening the door. ‘In you go, ace.’

  Lowe, hating him, ignored his wink, entering. She sat in bed with a breakfast tray upon her knees. She was not dressed and Lowe looked delicately away. But she said blandly:

  ‘Cheerio, Cadet! How looks the air today?’

  She indicated a chair and he drew it up to the bed, being so careful not to seem to stare that his carriage became noticeable. She looked at him quickly and kindly and offered him coffee. Courageous with whisky on an empty stomach he knew hunger suddenly. He took the cup.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said with belated courtesy, trying to be more than nineteen. (Why is nineteen ashamed of its age?) She treats me like a child, he thought, fretted and gaining courage, watching with increasing boldness her indicated shoulders and wondering with interest if she had stockings on.

  Why didn’t I say something as I came in? Something easy and intimate? Listen, when I first saw you my love for you was like — my love was like — my love for you — God, if I only hadn’t drunk so much last night I could say it my love for you my love is love is like . . . and found himself watching her arms as she moved and her loose sleeves fell away from them, saying, yes, he was glad the war was over and telling her that he had forty-seven hours’ flying time and would have got wings in two weeks more and that his mother in San Francisco was expecting him.

  She treats me like a child, he thought with exasperation, seeing the slope of her shoulders and the place where her breast was.

  ‘How black your hair is,’ he said, and she said:

  ‘Lowe, when are you going home?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why should I go home? I think I’ll have to look at the country first.’

  ‘But your mother!’ She glanced at him.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said largely, ‘you know what women are — always worrying you.’

  ‘Lowe! How do you know so much about things? Women? You — aren’t married, are you?’

  ‘Me married?’ repeated Lowe with ungrammatical zest, ‘me married? Not so’s you know it. I have lots of girls, but married?’ he brayed with brief unnecessary vigour. ‘What made you think so?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You look so — so mature, you see.’

  ‘Ah, that’s flying does that. Look at him in there.’

  ‘Is that it? I had noticed something about you. . . . You would have been an ace, too, if you’d seen any Germans, wouldn’t you?’

  He glanced at her quickly, like a struck dog. Here was his old dull despair again.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with quick sincerity. ‘I didn’t think: of course you would. Anyway, it wasn’t your fault. You did your best, I know.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, hurt, ‘what do you women want, anyway? I am as good a flyer as any ever was at the front — flying or any other way.’ He sat morose under her eyes. He rose suddenly. ‘Say, what’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Margaret,’ she told him. He approached the bed where she sat and she said: ‘More coffee?’ stopping him dead. ‘You’ve forgotten your cup. There it is, on the table.’

  Before he thought he had returned and fetched his cup, received coffee he did not want. He felt like a fool and being young he resented it. All right for you, he promised her and sat again in a dull rage. To hell with them all.

  ‘I have offended you, haven’t I?’ she asked. ‘But, Lowe, I feel so bad, and you were about to make love to me.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ he asked, hurt and dull.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. But women can tell. And I don’t want to be made love to. Gilligan has already done that.’

  ‘Gilligan? Why, I’
ll kill him if he has annoyed you.’

  ‘No, no: he didn’t offend me, any more than you did. It was flattering. But why were you going to make love to me? You thought of it before you came in, didn’t you?’

  Lowe told her youngly: ‘I thought of it on the train when I first saw you. When I saw you I knew you were the woman for me. Tell me, you don’t like him better than me because he has wings and a scar, do you?’

  ‘Why, of course not.’ She looked at him a moment, calculating. Then she said: ‘Mr Gilligan says he is dying.’

  ‘Dying?’ he repeated and ‘Dying?’ How the man managed to circumvent him at every turn! As if it were not enough to have wings and a scar. But to die.

  ‘Margaret,’ he said with such despair that she gazed at him in swift pity. (He was so young.) ‘Margaret, are you in love with him?’ (Knowing that if he were a woman, he would be.)

  ‘No, certainly not. I am not in love with anybody. My husband was killed on the Aisne, you see,’ she told him gently.

  ‘Oh, Margaret,’ he said with bitter sincerity, ‘I would have been killed there if I could, or wounded like him, don’t you know it?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ She put the tray aside. ‘Come here.’

  Cadet Lowe rose again and went to her. ‘I would have been, if I’d had a chance,’ he repeated.

  She drew him down beside her, and he knew he was acting the child she supposed him to be, but he couldn’t help it. His disappointment and despair were more than everything now. Here were her knees sweetly under her face, and he put his arms around her legs.

  ‘I wanted to be,’ he confessed more than he had ever believed. ‘I would take his scar and all.’

  ‘And be dead, like he is going to be?’

  But what was death to Cadet Lowe, except something true and grand and sad? He saw a tomb, open, and himself in boots and belt, and pilot’s wings on his breast, a wound stripe. . . . What more could one ask of Fate?

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered.

  ‘Why, you have flown, too,’ she told him, holding his face against her knees, ‘you might have been him, but you were lucky. Perhaps you would have flown too well to have been shot down as he was. Had you thought of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I would let them catch me, if I could have been him. You are in love with him.’

  ‘I swear I am not.’ She raised his head to see his face. ‘I would tell you if I were. Don’t you believe me?’ her eyes were compelling: he believed her.

  ‘Then, if you aren’t, can’t you promise to wait for me? I will be older soon and I’ll work like hell and make money.’

  ‘What will your mother say?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t have to mind her like a kid forever. I am nineteen, as old as you are, and if she don’t like it, she can go to hell.’

  ‘Lowe!’ she reproved him, not telling him she was twenty-four, ‘the idea! You go home and tell your mother — I will give you a note to her — and you can write what she says.’

  ‘But I had rather go with you.’

  ‘But, dear heart, what good will that do? We are going to take him home, and he is sick. Don’t you see, darling, we can’t do anything until we get him settled, and that you would only be in the way?’

  ‘In the way?’ he repeated with sharp pain.

  ‘You know what I mean. We can’t have anything to think about until we get him home, don’t you see?’

  ‘But you aren’t in love with him?’

  ‘I swear I’m not. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Then, are you in love with me?’

  She drew his face against her knees again. ‘You sweet child,’ she said; ‘of course I won’t tell you — yet.’

  And he had to be satisfied with this. They held each other in silence for a time. ‘How good you smell,’ remarked Cadet Lowe at last.

  She moved. ‘Come up here by me,’ she commanded, and when he was beside her she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her, and she drew his head between her breasts. After a while she stroked his hair and spoke.

  ‘Now, are you going home at once?’

  ‘Must I?’ he asked vacuously.

  ‘You must,’ she answered. ‘Today. Wire her at once. And I will give you a note to her.’

  ‘Oh, hell, you know what she’ll say.’

  ‘Of course I do. You haven’t any sisters and brothers, have you?’

  ‘No,’ he said in surprise. She moved and he sensed the fact that she desired to be released. He sat up. ‘How did you know?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘I just guessed. But you will go, won’t you? Promise.’

  ‘Well, I will, then. But I will come back to you.’

  ‘Of course you will. I will expect you. Kiss me.’

  She offered her face coolly and he kissed her as she wished: coldly, remotely. She put her hands on his cheeks. ‘Dear boy,’ she said, kissing him again, as his mother kissed him.

  ‘Say, that’s no way for engaged people to kiss,’ he objected.

  ‘How do engaged people kiss?’ she asked. He put his arms around her, feeling her shoulder-blades, and drew her mouth against his with the technique he had learned. She suffered his kiss a moment, then thrust him away.

  ‘Is that how engaged people kiss?’ she asked, laughing. ‘I like this better.’ She took his face in her palms and touched his mouth briefly and coolly. ‘Now swear you’ll wire your mother at once.’

  ‘But will you write to me?’

  ‘Surely. But swear you will go today, in spite of what Gilligan may tell you.’

  ‘I swear,’ he answered, looking at her mouth. ‘Can’t I kiss you again?’

  ‘When we are married,’ she said, and he knew he was being dismissed. Thinking, knowing, that she was watching him, he crossed the room with an air, not looking back.

  Here were yet Gilligan and the officer. Mahon said:

  ‘Morning, old chap.’

  Gilligan looked at Lowe’s belligerent front from a quizzical reserve of sardonic amusement.

  ‘Made a conquest, hey, ace?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ replied Lowe. ‘Where’s that bottle? I’m going home today.’

  ‘Here she is, General. Drink deep. Going home?’ he repeated. ‘So are we, hey, Loot?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  JONES, JANUARIUS JONES, born of whom he knew and cared not, becoming Jones alphabetically, January through a conjunction of calendar and biology, Januarius through the perverse conjunction of his own star and the compulsion of food and clothing — Januarius Jones baggy in grey tweed, being lately a fellow of Latin in a small college, leaned upon a gate of iron grill-work breaking a levee of green and embryonically starred honeysuckle, watching April busy in a hyacinth bed. Dew was on the grass and bees broke apple bloom in the morning sun while swallows were like plucked strings against a pale windy sky. A face regarded him across a suspended trowel and the metal clasps of crossed suspenders made a cheerful glittering.

  The rector said: ‘Good morning, young man.’ His shining dome was friendly against an ivy-covered wall above which the consummate grace of a spire and a gilded cross seemed to arc across motionless young clouds.

  Januarius Jones, caught in the spire’s illusion of slow ruin, murmured: ‘Watch it fall, sir.’ The sun was full on his young round face.

  The horticulturist regarded him with benevolent curiosity. ‘Fall? Ah, you see an aeroplane,’ he stated. ‘My son was in that service during the war.’ He became gigantic in black trousers and broken shoes. ‘A beautiful day for flying,’ he said from beneath his cupped hand. ‘Where do you see it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Jones, ‘no aeroplane, sir. I referred in a fit of unpardonable detachment to your spire. It was ever my childish delight to stand beneath a spire while clouds are moving overhead. The illusion of slow falling is perfect. Have you ever experienced this, sir?’

  ‘To be sure I have, though it has been — let me see — more years than I care to remembe
r. But one of my cloth is prone to allow his soul to atrophy in his zeal for the welfare of other souls that—’

  ‘ — that not only do not deserve salvation, but that do not particularly desire it,’ finished Jones.

  The rector promptly rebuked him. Sparrows were delirious in ivy and the rambling façade of the rectory was a dream in jonquils and clipped sward. There should be children here, thought Jones. He said:

  ‘I must humbly beg your pardon for my flippancy, Doctor. I assure you that I — ah — took advantage of the situation without any ulterior motive whatever.’

  ‘I understand that, dear boy. My rebuke was tendered in the same spirit. There are certain conventions which we must observe in this world; one of them being an outward deference to that cloth which I unworthily, perhaps, wear. And I have found this particularly incumbent upon us of the — what shall I say — ?’

  ‘Integer vitae scelerisque purus

  non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu

  nec venenatis gravida sagittis,

  Fusce, pharetra—’

  began Jones. The rector chimed in:

  ‘ — sive per Syrtis iter aestuosas

  sive facturus per inhospitalem

  Causasum vel quae loca fabulosus

  lambit Hydaspes,’

  they concluded in galloping duet and stood in the ensuing silence regarding each other with genial enthusiasm.

  ‘But come, come,’ cried the rector. His eyes were pleasant. ‘Shall I let the stranger languish without my gates?’ The grilled iron swung open and his earthy hand was heavy on Jones’s shoulder. ‘Come let us try the spire.’

  The grass was good. A myriad bees vacillated between clover and apple bloom, apple bloom and clover, and from the Gothic mass of the church the spire rose, a prayer imperishable in bronze, immaculate in its illusion of slow ruin across motionless young clouds.

  ‘My one sincere parishioner,’ murmured the divine. Sunlight was a windy golden plume about his bald head, and Januarius Jones’s face was a round mirror before which fauns and nymphs might have wantoned when the world was young.