Free The Hunters by James Salter

simply “outmaneuvered the enemy aircraft with great skill.” Robey was dictating a more stirring amplification.
    â€œAlthough under fire . . . from one element . . . of MIG-15
aircraft . . . at the time,” Robey said slowly as it was being copied down, “and in great . . . danger . . . better make that jeopardy; in great jeopardy . . . Captain Robey nevertheless pressed . . . a brilliant . . . timed attack . . . on another enemy element. Do you have that?”
    â€œWait a minute. Other . . . enemy . . . element. OK.”
    â€œAnd succeeded . . . in destroying the . . . lead aircraft . . . with a long . . . accurate burst . . . at a high angle off . . . and at . . . extreme range.”
    â€œAll right. High . . . angle . . . off . . . extreme . . . range. There.”
    Robey picked it up and read it through.
    â€œAll right,” he muttered. He could feel Cleve watching him. “That does it, eh?”
    â€œIt certainly does.”
    â€œThis is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Robey confided. “You’ll find out though. If you want to get anything out of those desk pilots at Fifth, you practically have to squeeze it out of them.”
    â€œIs that what you’re doing?”
    â€œThey won’t turn this one down.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. Do you really think the DFC is enough, though?”
    Robey’s expression firmed, but he passed it off lightly.
    â€œHell, no,” he said. “The way they make you fight to get one, there ought to be an extra medal to go along with it. For valor in the face of great administrative odds.”
    â€œI’d say you’d have earned that one.”
    â€œI wouldn’t turn it down. I can tell you that.”
    â€œI don’t see how you very well could.”
    Robey stiffened.
    â€œI said I wouldn’t.”

    Cleve got to his feet.
    â€œI know,” he said. “I’ve been listening to you.”
    â€œYou’ve been talking mostly,” Robey said. “As far as I can see, Connell, that’s about all you do in that so-called flight of yours anyway. Why don’t you go back and give them a few thousand words on what you think instead of trying to tell me?”
    â€œI haven’t told you what I think. I haven’t even begun to tell you.”
    â€œNobody asked you to,” Robey replied.
    Â 
    DeLeo and Daughters were in the room when Cleve entered. He lifted one side of the blanket that covered the table and reached beneath it for the shelf where the mission whiskey was kept. It was issued at so many ounces per man per mission, but they usually received it in the form of two or three bottles to the flight, as a monthly dividend. He withdrew one and set it on the table.
    â€œJim?” he asked Daughters.
    â€œNo thanks, Cleve. Not for me.”
    He poured a drink for DeLeo without asking. His hand was shaking, and he moved so that he stood between them and the bottle. They mixed the whiskey with cold water from one of the canteens in the window box. Cleve sat back then and looked about him, at DeLeo, and at Daughters on his cot, sitting knees up, writing. He felt closer to them every day as their dimensions deepened for him, and at that moment especially he was sure he would have been lost without them. His so-called flight. Yes, they were that, he thought belligerently.
    â€œWell, here’s to the heroes,” Cleve proposed. “Don’t ever know one if you can help it.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”

    â€œI just spent a few pleasant minutes with Robey,” Cleve said.
    â€œSo?”
    He told them what had happened. When he had finished, DeLeo spit at the floor.
    â€œThat’s for Robey,” he said. “Don’t let it bother you. If he’s a hero, I’m a genius.”
    â€œHe’s a fighter pilot; that’s something.”
    â€œSure. It means he’s a little crazy.”
    â€œStop being a clown for a minute. He