Free The Hunters by James Salter Page A

represents this—I don’t know what to call it—craft. I use the word loosely. He’s accomplished what he’s supposed to do, he’s shot down airplanes. If it was two or three, it wouldn’t be so bad, but he’s got five. He’s not in the squadron any more, in a way. He belongs to all the fighter pilots, and if they’re not so numerous, to anybody that might consider them. So there he stands. They look at him and see us, what we try to be. Robey, with his chest full of medals . . .”
    â€œThe medals?” DeLeo said. “They don’t mean a thing. He could have a trunk full of medals and it wouldn’t mean anything.”
    â€œNot to you, maybe, but you’re a primitive.”
    â€œI’m a primitive? Just because I pick my nose?”
    â€œThat’s the least of it.”
    â€œYou’re insulting everybody tonight, aren’t you?”
    Cleve smiled.
    â€œDrink up,” he said. “Don’t be so sensitive. I only insult heroes.”
    Daughters went back to his letter.
    After a while, Pell came into the room. He had been at the club with Hunter and Pettibone, and those two had gone to the nightly movie. They went religiously, no matter what was playing. Pell never did; there were too many other things demanding his time.
At the moment, he was interested in meeting the nurses in the hospital down in Yongdongpo, and he’d arranged to borrow a jeep to go there the following night. His reputation of always having had great success with women was something that required constant renewal. He was intrigued by the prospect of a conquest under difficult circumstances.
    Pell poured himself a drink and sat down at the table. He stirred the liquid with his finger. He seemed to be unusually contemplative.
    â€œI’m in a rut,” he complained. “Three missions, and I haven’t been in a fight yet.”
    â€œYou have a few left,” Cleve said.
    â€œAh, the damned war may end any time, though. Did you hear the news broadcasts tonight? They’ve worked their way down to disagreeing on just one little point at the truce talks.”
    It was the first time that Cleve felt any shame himself at not caring whether it ended or not. There was a period of increasing pall. Pell had come, and the intimate mood had fled.
    â€œAnybody feel like a few hands of gin?” Pell finally asked.
    â€œHow about it?”
    â€œNo thanks,” Cleve said.
    DeLeo shook his head.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Pell complained. “Doesn’t anybody around here play?”
    There was a silence. Daughters folded the letter he had been writing and swung his legs to the floor.
    â€œI’ll play a few hands with you, Pell,” he said.
    He sat down at the table in his quiet way and watched as Pell picked up a deck of cards and began shuffling them with lean,
expert fingers. He did not even seem to be aware of them whispering between his hands.
    â€œWhat’ll we play for?” Daughters asked unexpectedly. He was not given to gambling.
    Pell lit a cigar, pushed his hat back, and slumped down comfortably in the wooden chair. He shrugged.
    â€œJust make it easy on yourself, Jim,” he said. “I don’t care.”
    â€œHow about half a cent a point?”
    â€œSure. That’s fine with me. I don’t want your money.” He smiled. “I just need the practice.”
    Pell dealt out the hands quickly.
    It started out as a fairly close game. Cleve sat watching it for about three quarters of an hour, surprised at how well Daughters was doing, and hoping for him. Compared with Daughters’s gentle, almost resigned, attitude, though, everything about Pell’s game was polished and cool. He seemed at least moderately pleased with every card he drew, and he discarded with confidence. He gave the impression of indeed only practicing. Daughters was a good player, but Pell seemed to have the luck when it counted, and