Trophy by Julian Jay Savarin

end been his undoing. After several over-confident and bad landings, and one crash that had injured his instructor but had left him unscathed, he had been washed out of flying school.
    With the expectation that he’d refuse, get out of the air force and everyone’s hair, he had unenthusiastically been offered a chance at navigation school. To the chagrin and surprise of his superiors, he had accepted. To their even greater surprise, he had turned into a first-class navigator and weapons man. In navigation and bombing competitions, his aircraft frequently came first. But there were still flaws in his character, apparently irredeemable.
    McCann pulled up at the gate. The military policeman, American, recognised him and came up to the car.
    McCann showed his pass.
    The policeman saluted.” ‘Mornin’, Lieutenant. How was London?”
    “Don’t ask, Browski.” Dead pan. “Don’t ask.”
    “That bad, Lieutenant? I don’t believe it. You never have a bad time.”
    Suddenly McCann grinned. “It was that
good,
man. I’m telling you.”
    Browski smiled back. “I figured it would be something like that.”
    “Browski.”
    “Yes, Lieutenant?”
    “Do I get to enter the base?”
    “Oh. Sure, Lieutenant.”
    Browski went off to raise the barrier, saluted again as the Corvette rumbled past. He ambled across the road to talk to the other gate sentry.
    “That Lieutenant McCann. Always having a good time.”
    “He’s a dickhead,” the second policeman said uncharitably.
    “What’s with you, Canelli? Lieutenant McCann’s one of the main men on this goddam base. Never uptight. Never pulls rank.”
    “So that makes him a good officer? Goddam rich kid. If I’d had his chances …”
    Browski frowned. “I get it. You want to make Airman First Class to Colonel in one day.”
    “Fuck you, Browski.”
    “Have a nice day,” Browski said, unmoved, and walked slowly back to his post.
    In the Officers’ Club, McCann heard someone say: “Elmer Lee?”
    “Yo.” He looked up from his cup of coffee to see a fellow navigator, in captain’s uniform.
    “The man wants to see you,” the captain said.
    “Colonel Crane himself?”
    “Who else? And I’d get out of those civilianclothes, if I were you. What have you been up to this time, Elmer Lee?”
    McCann shrugged. “Beats me. I haven’t run over anybody. And last time I looked, old ladies still had their purses.”
    “A word of advice.”
    “I’ll listen, but I don’t promise to take it.”
    “Try not to come on flippant with the colonel.”
    McCann gave one of his impish grins.” ‘Flippant.’ Now there’s an English word. But then you Boston boys are almost English. Or perhaps you’ve been over here too long.”
    “You’ve got twenty minutes, McCann.”
    “Yes, sir,” McCann acknowledged, none too seriously.
    But he was in Crane’s office on time, smartly in uniform.
    Crane, a greying man who looked as if he’d seen too many things he hadn’t liked, was studying a thick file. Outside, a fully loaded F-lll low-level bomber trundled down the runway, and staggered into the air on widespread wings. Much bigger than the Tornado, it looked ungainly and strangely unsuited to its environment.
    “Lieutenant McCann,” Crane began without looking up, as the sound of the jet’s engines faded, “I have here records which by any standards make fine reading … that is, until I look at the rest of them.” He paused, and looked up, jabbing at the file briefly with a forefinger. “Lieutenant, part of what’sin this file tells me you should have been a captain by now. Any ideas why not?”
    “No, sir.”
    The wide blue eyes didn’t fool Crane. He grunted, went back to the file, began to read aloud: “First at Navigation School. First in a bombing competition at Nellis, during Red Flag. First, first, first.” He shut the file with a snap. “Dammit, McCann! If competence in the air alone gave rank, you’d probably be one of the youngest majors around.” He