what you're thinking about. I understand Milo Ruddick asked you to see him two weeks ago."
"He asked; he didn't tell me. I had stuff to do."
They were sitting on a horsehair-stuffed leather couch in Ruddick's outer office, sweat-stained from the D.C. heat outside. Bandfield moved his foot and a spittoon clanged.
"This place gives me the creeps—you'd think Daniel Webster was going to walk in."
"I wish to hell we were visiting Daniel Webster instead of Milo Ruddick. He's pissed off that you didn't report as soon as he asked you to."
"I didn't report to him because I don't want to tell him what I'm going to have to tell him."
"Which is?"
"That he's a bigoted horse's ass."
"Don't kid around, Bandy, this guy's too important to the Air Force."
"I won't be rude, Meat-axe, but I'm going to give it to him straight about integration."
The pleasant-looking secretary nodded, and they went inside. Ruddick moved around from behind his desk, smiling, clasping Varney's hand in his, then putting his arm around Bandfield's shoulder.
Ruddick was dressed in an expensive pinstripe suit. Bandfield had never seen a shirt like the one he was wearing; it had a white collar and long French cuffs, but the rest of the shirt was a deep blue. He didn't like it, but he knew it had to be expensive. Everything about Ruddick seemed expensive—especially his goodwill.
"So here's our elusive Colonel Bandfield. You know, Colonel"—it sounded like Cunnel —"when I call a military officer in, even a four-star general, they're usually pretty prompt."
"Sorry, sir. I was tied up with some business on the Berlin Airlift."
"A good answer, Colonel. Not true, but a good answer. But I've got some questions I want to ask you."
"About integration?"
"Yes, but later. Right now I want to ask you for a favor. You flew in. the Cleveland air races, I believe?"
"A long time ago." He didn't even like to think that it was sixteen years before.
"Well, a firm is modifying two McNaughton Sidewinders into racing planes. My son is supposed to fly one of them in the Thompson Trophy race at Cleveland."
"This year?"
"No, they won't be ready by September, they're shooting for 1949. Sometime between now and then, I'd like you to go out to Nashville and look at the racer. Then fly with my son and see if he has the skill to handle it."
"I'm sure General Varney will give me time to do that. But your son is probably qualified—you told me he flew McNaughtons during the war, didn't you?"
"Yes, but these are going to be highly modified. Frankly, they scare me. I'd like you to take a look. Now, tell me what you learned about integration."
Bandfield looked down and scuffed his foot on the thin carpet. "Mr. Ruddick, you're not going to like what I have to say. I talked to a lot of people around the country. I talked to Colonel Johnson at Lockbourne. It looks to me like the service is making a big mistake with segregation. We're missing out on a lot of talent, and spending a lot of money doing it."
"Well, it's a moot point. In ten days, the President is going to sign an executive order that will force integration in the services. So all this doesn't sound too bad to me; I don't mind those findings at all."
Varney looked relieved as Bandfield went on. "Yes, but I also found out that you're lying through your teeth when you say you don't oppose integration personally. You had my friend, John Marshall, fired at McNaughton, just because he was a Negro!"
Varney jumped in. "Colonel Bandfield, you're out of line." He turned to Ruddick. "I'm sorry, sir, I had no idea this would happen."
Not accustomed to sharp talk from subordinates, Ruddick stepped forward in anger, fists balled, then stopped to compose himself. After a teeth-clenched moment he grunted, "I'm sure you didn't, General. This is outrageous, and it makes me wonder if Colonel Bandfield has the good judgment required to fly Air Force aircraft. I'm going to have to look into this matter."
Bandfield strode toward the
"He asked; he didn't tell me. I had stuff to do."
They were sitting on a horsehair-stuffed leather couch in Ruddick's outer office, sweat-stained from the D.C. heat outside. Bandfield moved his foot and a spittoon clanged.
"This place gives me the creeps—you'd think Daniel Webster was going to walk in."
"I wish to hell we were visiting Daniel Webster instead of Milo Ruddick. He's pissed off that you didn't report as soon as he asked you to."
"I didn't report to him because I don't want to tell him what I'm going to have to tell him."
"Which is?"
"That he's a bigoted horse's ass."
"Don't kid around, Bandy, this guy's too important to the Air Force."
"I won't be rude, Meat-axe, but I'm going to give it to him straight about integration."
The pleasant-looking secretary nodded, and they went inside. Ruddick moved around from behind his desk, smiling, clasping Varney's hand in his, then putting his arm around Bandfield's shoulder.
Ruddick was dressed in an expensive pinstripe suit. Bandfield had never seen a shirt like the one he was wearing; it had a white collar and long French cuffs, but the rest of the shirt was a deep blue. He didn't like it, but he knew it had to be expensive. Everything about Ruddick seemed expensive—especially his goodwill.
"So here's our elusive Colonel Bandfield. You know, Colonel"—it sounded like Cunnel —"when I call a military officer in, even a four-star general, they're usually pretty prompt."
"Sorry, sir. I was tied up with some business on the Berlin Airlift."
"A good answer, Colonel. Not true, but a good answer. But I've got some questions I want to ask you."
"About integration?"
"Yes, but later. Right now I want to ask you for a favor. You flew in. the Cleveland air races, I believe?"
"A long time ago." He didn't even like to think that it was sixteen years before.
"Well, a firm is modifying two McNaughton Sidewinders into racing planes. My son is supposed to fly one of them in the Thompson Trophy race at Cleveland."
"This year?"
"No, they won't be ready by September, they're shooting for 1949. Sometime between now and then, I'd like you to go out to Nashville and look at the racer. Then fly with my son and see if he has the skill to handle it."
"I'm sure General Varney will give me time to do that. But your son is probably qualified—you told me he flew McNaughtons during the war, didn't you?"
"Yes, but these are going to be highly modified. Frankly, they scare me. I'd like you to take a look. Now, tell me what you learned about integration."
Bandfield looked down and scuffed his foot on the thin carpet. "Mr. Ruddick, you're not going to like what I have to say. I talked to a lot of people around the country. I talked to Colonel Johnson at Lockbourne. It looks to me like the service is making a big mistake with segregation. We're missing out on a lot of talent, and spending a lot of money doing it."
"Well, it's a moot point. In ten days, the President is going to sign an executive order that will force integration in the services. So all this doesn't sound too bad to me; I don't mind those findings at all."
Varney looked relieved as Bandfield went on. "Yes, but I also found out that you're lying through your teeth when you say you don't oppose integration personally. You had my friend, John Marshall, fired at McNaughton, just because he was a Negro!"
Varney jumped in. "Colonel Bandfield, you're out of line." He turned to Ruddick. "I'm sorry, sir, I had no idea this would happen."
Not accustomed to sharp talk from subordinates, Ruddick stepped forward in anger, fists balled, then stopped to compose himself. After a teeth-clenched moment he grunted, "I'm sure you didn't, General. This is outrageous, and it makes me wonder if Colonel Bandfield has the good judgment required to fly Air Force aircraft. I'm going to have to look into this matter."
Bandfield strode toward the
Similar Books
