We sit in the rear, going âHereâs five hundred. Keep attacking.ââ
Bryant laughed. The lights went out. The screen to their right lit up for a second or two, flashing an aircraft silhouette, and went dark.
âRight. Any ideas?â Lieutenant Mipson called.
âAn Me-110,â someone called out.
âAn Me-210,â someone else said.
âA Bristol Beaufighter,â a third voice called.
âI didnât even see it,â Bryant whispered.
âAn Me-110,â Lieutenant Mipson said. The men hooted and laughed, delighted with the lilt in his voice. All officers and desk warriors were continuously watched for any signs of cowardice, hypocrisy, or effeminacy. âThis?â he said, and a plane flashed for what seemed less than a second. Bryant had no idea.
There was a short silence. âGene Tierney,â someone said. Everyone laughed. It was Lewis.
âTry it again.â He flashed it once more, for a bit longer.
There was some coughing. âI was better off when I wasnât looking,â Bryant whispered.
âA Heinkel?â someone offered.
âWhat sort of Heinkel?â Mipson said into the darkness.
âAn obscure one,â Snowberry said from somewhere behind him.
âA 189,â Mipson said.
â That âs a 189?â Bryant asked.
âYou, Sergeant.â Mipson pointed to Bean. âWhatâs this?â
Bean gazed at the screen, his eyes like a rabbitâs caught in the headlights. âSir?â he said. âA Dornier?â
âA Mosquito,â Mipson said. âAbout as wrong as you can be, Sergeant.â
From the back someone made the sound effects of skidding tires, smashing glass.
Lieutenant Mipson announced a spot quiz, with some weariness. âTen planes for two seconds apiece,â he said. âTake out papers and number them from one to ten.â
The lights came back on, and it was noisy out of all proportion to the task supposedly being performed. They numbered their papers, and waited. Bryantâs column of numbers strode off to the left as it descended. The lights went off again. Men made kissing noises.
âOne,â Mipson said. A Focke Wulf 190 appeared on the screen.
There were boos and hisses. âGene Tierney,â Lewis called from the back.
âQuiet,â Mipson scolded.
Another went up. A Dornier something, Bryant knew. 217? He glanced at Hirschâs page in the gloom.
Another. An Me-109. The men cheered the most familiar silhouette in the Luftwaffe.
Seven more went by. Bryant figured heâd gotten five. They were gone so fast. The lights were back on, and they were stretching and trying to look at each otherâs papers.
âNow the chart,â Mipson said. He went from A to Q with his pointer. Then they did lookalikes from confusing angles. Bryant mistook a Spitfire for a Messerschmitt.
They filed out peeved at their ignorance and angry with this kind of desk fighting anyway. Beside the door was a morale poster, a drawing of a Focke Wulf 190, probably the best of the German interceptors, with its broad snout comically exaggerated, its squared wings shortened and absurd. The caption read Whoâs Afraid of the Big Bad Wulf? Beneath it someone had written, We are. Following that was a row of signatures, running off the paper and a good ways down the wall. Lewis Peeters was the first name on the list. Heâd also drawn in, in some detail, the Focke Wulfâs underwing cannon.
After the afternoon session Bryant and Hirsch waited for Snowberry and Lewis to file out. Hirsch seemed reluctant to wait. Bryant called the two of them over when they emerged, but when they arrived he discovered he had no real idea of what to say. They stood in a foursome awkwardly. Hirsch was an officer, a second looey himself, which made things more difficult. They were tech sergeants.
Lewis tested and worried a loop of string, the movement of his hands relaxed and
Jerry B. Jenkins, Chris Fabry