The Hunters by James Salter Page B

it was listed the name of every pilot in the group who had ever had a confirmed claim in Korea. Small red stars marked them. There were separate columns for aircraft destroyed, probably destroyed, and damaged, but it was only the first column that really counted. His eye moved down the trail of names. Many of them he did not recognize. They had left the group long before. Some belonged to dead men. There was Robey’s, with five stars after it. Nolan had three. Bengert, seven. Imil, six. Tonneson had thirteen, two full lines on the board. And there was his own name with one, and Pell’s. Cleve had seen men come in every day to glance at this board and admire their names on it. It was the roll of honor. Hunter had once told him that he would rather have his there than anything else in the world. It was absurd, and yet impressive.
Anything that men would willingly die for had to be considered seriously. From this board, perhaps, or one like it, could come names a nation would seize in its appetite for heroes. For a truly singular record there might be lasting fame.
    Abrupt voices interrupted his thoughts. They had seen something up north. Cleve moved quickly to the radio. He turned up the volume.
    â€œ. . . at twelve o’clock, Blue Lead,” somebody said.
    â€œRoger, I have them.”
    â€œFour more at ten high.”
    It was garbled for a moment. They were all talking at once.
    â€œThey look like MIGs.”
    â€œI don’t have them now.”
    â€œOne o‘clock! One o’clock!” someone called.
    There was brief, unbearable silence. Then, “They’re MIGs! Drop tanks, Blue.”
    The air filled with voices blocking one another out. He heard other flights cleaning up their airplanes and joining the fight. He had a sensation of drowning, of everything starting to go the wrong way. He felt a terrible impotence. The transmissions overlapped crazily It was difficult to follow what was happening, but somebody had gotten one. He heard a sharp call:
    â€œHe’s bailing out! There goes the chute!”
    He sat quietly, overcome with depression. He tried to rationalize: it was over so little, like a child who has not been invited to a party, brooding. Nothing would help him, though. He listened in despair. The cries of those triumphant beat on him like waves of nausea.
    Colonel Imil came in. He frequently dropped by to check on a mission’s progress if he was not flying himself.

    â€œHello, Cleve,” he said. “How’s it going up there?”
    â€œTerrible.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing. They’re in a fight.”
    â€œA big one?”
    â€œIt’s hard to tell, Colonel. It sounds pretty big.”
    â€œThey get any?”
    â€œOne at least,” Cleve said. “Maybe more.”
    â€œNothing wrong with that.”
    They sat listening together, but not much came over the air. The fight had already begun to dissipate. Like a storm, it was preceded and followed by incongruous calm. The colonel tried the volume control. It was full high.
    â€œIt must be over already,” he said. “Do you know who got them?”
    â€œCouldn’t hear.”
    â€œWho’s flying?” He walked over and read a scheduling board. He grunted. “Nobody much. Maybe Moncavage did some good. He’s got a chance with that line-up, anyway.”
    â€œMaybe,” Cleve said. “My flight is up there.”
    â€œWhich is that? DeLeo?”
    Cleve nodded.
    â€œI can’t place him right off. He hasn’t done much, has he?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œIs he any good?”
    â€œIf he gets the chance.”
    â€œWell, we’ll see. Maybe this was it for him.”
    â€œHe’s due.”
    Imil gestured toward the claims board.
    â€œThat’s what I judge by,” he said. “That’s where it shows. You
talk about chances. Look at that, Tonneson for instance. Thirteen kills.