They took the gas from its tank by bucket loads. The fuel gauge of the Vultee began to rise.

  “We’ll be back,” Roberts promised the men. “This is our island and we’ll keep it! Within twenty-four hours destroyers and cruisers will put in. Interceptors will come to fight off any more Jap attacks. There’s gas enough in our tank now to reach the base. Thanks very much. Good-by, and good luck.”

  The Vultee roared across the field, nosed up at a sharp angle, then circled the island. O’Malley pointed down.

  “Hey, look at that! They’ve got the flag flying again! Say—I didn’t hear all that went on, but that flag looks as though it’s shot full of holes.”

  “It is, and it’s bloody, too,” Roberts said quietly. “But before this is over, that flag will fly anywhere we wish and pretty soon the blood on that one will be washed out. Brave men are buried on that island. Not soldiers, but civilians who have proved themselves just as good soldiers as any men who ever flew or handled a gun.”

  THE CLOUD WIZARD, by David Goodis

  “That makes twenty-seven for Bersbee.”

  “Tops for this outfit.”

  “Tops for almost any outfit. He’s due for a promotion soon. They can’t decorate him any more, unless it’s to give him a V. C.”

  And then they stopped talking, because Bersbee was entering the lounge of the Officers’ Mess. His hair was new-combed, wet, and his face glowed red from a rough towel. He wore a clean uniform and his shoes were well polished. There was something fresh and assured and bright about him. Whenever the other men in Squadron 19 looked at Bersbee, their own feelings were upped. Their own confidence was heightened.

  Flying Officer Bersbee was the best man in the outfit. He had been in the thickest part of the business since the Battle of France. Only this morning, over the Channel, near Portsmouth, he had knocked down his twenty-seventh Nazi. And he had done it with the customary Bersbee finesse.

  No madman stuff. No acrobatics. No suicide dives, hundred-to-one lunges, turns, swirls, roll-outs, loops. None of the wild flying that distinguished the work of other high-ranking men in the R. A. F.

  With Bersbee it was cold and clean and very mathematical. Although he was just as fast as any of the others when it came to running from the Dispersal Hut, taking off, climbing, moving into combat stance, he always seemed to be taking his time. He always seemed to be moving with calculated deliberateness, as if he had drawn up blueprints for every move.

  He rather looked the part. For his medium height he was overweight by about twenty pounds. But it was packed in hard, and he was built firmly, stocky in a square way. He had very black hair, severely tonicked, combed and brushed. He had eyes that were almost black. His features were well balanced, well lined, and his complexion was outdoors-and-flying red. But he was not handsome. There was something cold and rigid and somewhat artificial in his appearance, and it kept him from being handsome.

  Bersbee was twenty-seven years old. Before the war he had been a statistician, working in the actuary division of a large London insurance firm.

  Now he walked toward his chair. He always sat in the same soft-backed leather chair. No other chair would do. If someone was already sitting in his chair, he would stand, even though there were other chairs. But things were at a point where nobody, not eve the squadron leader, would take Bersbee’s chair. He didn’t demand anything like this. He didn’t ask for special privileges. But the others seemed to know what he wanted, and they rushed to cater to him. He was best man in the outfit. He had downed 27 enemy planes. A few days ago he had saved Luckerson. Last week he had pulled Flight Lieutenant Limm-Gawes from a tough spot. A short time before that he had saved Hackedorn. He had saved Bensing, and Illvers, and Litchington. He had pulled them out of it at a time when it seemed as though nothing could snatch them from Nazi bullets and a cold, deep Channel.

  They adored Bersbee.

  * * * *

  He walked toward his chair and before he sat down he creased his trousers. Then, when he was settled comfortably in his chair, he looked up. And it was a signal for the white-coated waiter to come over with the silver tankard that held “half a can” of beer. Bersbee took it, raised it slowly to his lips. The waiter stood by. Sometime the beer was not cold enough. Sometime it was too cold.

  “Cold enough, sir?”

  “It’ll do.”

  Bersbee slowly sipped his beer. The lounge of the Officers’ Mess was filling rapidly now, as those who had taken part in the full-day combat were concluding the hot-and-cold shower, the nap, and coming to the lounge for the remainder of their evening relaxation. There had been a buzz of casual conversation before Bersbee’s entrance, and then a lull during his walk toward the chair, and his receiving of the beer, and the ceremony of the first few sips. And then the conversation heightened again as more men entered the room.

  Nobody spoke to Bersbee. They wanted to. They wanted to, very much. But it was gathered that he preferred to be let alone while he sipped his beer. Generally, he wanted to be let alone.

  They all knew this, even the new men. It was immediately impressed upon the new men. Leave Bersbee alone. Don’t ask him a lot of foolish questions. Don’t try to engage him in conversation. Leave him alone. He has enough to do when he gets in the air. When he’s on the ground he must relax. He must fully relax. Leave Bersbee alone. There aren’t many like Bersbee. Indeed, there aren’t many like him. The 19th must take good care of Bersbee. Leave him alone. Stay out of his chair. Don’t talk to him when he enters the lounge. Let him relax. Leave him alone.

  It had been duly impressed upon Meader, who was one of the new men. But Meader was forgetting about it now, as he entered the lounge. He was a tall, blond fellow, twenty-five, and this morning he had been saved by Bersbee. He had been attacking two Messerschmitts and had come out of a vertical right turn to find a third Nazi on his tail. As he manipulated out of the turn, he was brought into the bullet-line of the other Messerschmitts, and they were closing in, feeding upon him, when Bersbee entered the party. Bersbee entered cleanly from the side, like a surgeon’s blade. And cleanly he had flipped a three-second burst at the plane on Meader’s tail. The plane faded away from Meader’s tail and broke out in flames. Then Bersbee had edged up, feinted a loop, cleanly lunged at one of the other Messerschmitts. His Brownings found the enemy cockpit. Meader saw the Nazi die. He saw the other Nazi running away. He waved his thanks to Bersbee. But Bersbee was already hunting for more Nazis.

  Meader was more than glowingly grateful. He was very excited. He was fascinated. He had never seen flying like that. He had never believed that it could be done like that. It was so precise, and so thorough, and it was timed magnificently. During the come-home, landing at a small emergency field, waiting at a Dispersal Hut for another call to action, all during the second phase of the big air battle, all during the short nap and the third phase and the nap and then the hot-and-cold shower, Meader had been thinking of Bersbee, and what the man had done, how he had gone about it. Meader was a very sincere student of air combat. He kept telling himself that he was going to approach Bersbee. At first he remembered what the other flying officers had told him. Then he was purposely forgetting it.

  And now, as he entered the lounge of the Officers’ Mess, he walked directly to Bersbee’s chair. He stood in front of the chair. His mouth was open, and the first words were almost out. But not quite. Meader was much too awed.

  Bersbee was taking a long swallow. Then he was looking up. He was looking at Meader’s face. He was blinking, slightly puzzled, and he couldn’t exactly be blamed. The tall blond fellow was standing there, bent forward, mouth open, no words coming out, dull doltish film in the eyes.

  “I say — can I help you?” Bersbee murmured.

  A few fliers, standing nearby, heard that, and turned, and saw the new man trying to talk to Bersbee. They gestured frantically to Meader. They tried hard to attract his attention, draw him away from Bersbee. They nudged others, and others nudged others, and the chain of chatting thinned out as the room looked at Bersbee, and the moron of a new man who was bothering him.

  Meader blurted, “Thanks awfully!”

  “What?”

  “I said — thanks. I mean, for what you did this morning. You see, I was the one who —”

  Bersbee shook his head. He did not smile. He said, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t remember.”

  “Well, you see, I was the one who —”

  Bersbee closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. When he opened his eyes again he smiled tiredly and said, “I still wouldn’t remember.”

  “But I —”

  Bersbee stood up quickly. He brought the silver tankard against the arm of the leather chair. A ribbon of foam sloshed up and glided over the dark green leather. Meader was groping for words to make a suitable apology. Bersbee was turning rigidly, walking from the room. Meader stood there, by the chair, head low, still groping for words, mumbling nothing.

  The lounge was quiet for several seconds. Then a mob moved toward Meader. They tried at first to keep their voices kind and correcting.

  “Rather thoughtless, Meader.”

  “Poor stuff, old chap. We told you —”

  “You should have known better, Meader. It was so tactless. Bersbee must be let alone. Can’t you understand that in a way he’s somewhat of a genius? Yea, he’s really that, old man, and he mustn’t be annoyed.”

  Meader looked at a purple dragon woven into a dark orange background of carpet. He said, “I only wanted to — thank him.”

  Flight Lieutenant Limm-Gawes said, “Blazes, man! What is this, a rugby match? We haven’t time for that sort of embroidery. If he pulled you out of a tough spot, it’s taken for granted that you’re thankful. You were told specifically to leave Bersbee alone.”

  “But I didn’t think it would hurt to —”

  Litchington said, “Look here, Meader. You’re new, very new, and you’ve got an awful lot to learn. Be good enough to —”

  Hackedorn broke in with, “We can’t let Bersbee be annoyed. We simply can’t let that happen!”

  “Can’t you understand?” Limm-Gawes said.

  Meader frowned slightly, and looked at the faces that circled him. He was being censured, of course, but in a greater sense he was being begged to refrain from pestering, even talking to a certain fellow flyer. His frown was deepening and he was telling himself that it was absurd. Bersbee was a good man, indeed. He was better than that. He was really a marvelous warrior. The 19th was lucky to have him. But this idolatry, this downright fanatical attitude, placing the golden statue on an ivory pedestal and crawling before it on bellies — preserving the worshipful silence — was almost comical.

  Reaching that conclusion, he forgot about what had happened earlier in the day, at 12,000 feet over Portsmouth. He was straightening his shoulders, and raising his head, and looking at the faces and saying, “I’m really awfully sorry, but I fail to understand.”

  * * * *

  Then he walked away from them, across the lounge, and toward the door. Behind him there was hollow quiet. Then it was sliced as an oath hissed from someone’s lips. Footsteps came toward Meader, and just as he reached the door, a hand tapped his shoulder.

  When he turned, he saw Illvers, who was one of Bersbee’s most fervent worshippers. Illvers had been saved twice. Once, over Newhaven, he had started an argument with five Heinkels. Their guns found his glycol tank and the Spitfire was falling and flaming. It was necessary for Illvers to “jump out the window.” And so he jumped at 8000 feet, and a few seconds after his parachute opened, the Heinkels came down after him, trying to put bullets through the chute. Just about that time, Bersbee made an entrance. On his first dive he caught the nearest Heinkel. When he came up for his underside attack, he crippled another. Then the Germans ran away. Illvers still talked about that.

  Now he looked steadily at Meader and said, “It’s unimportant whether or not you understand.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You will. You’re going to leave Bersbee alone.”

  “That sounds as if I was a bill collector.”

  “We’ll dispense with wit, if you don’t mind,” Illvers clipped. He was as tall as Meader, and much heavier. He had small eyes and a thick neck.

  Meader was annoyed, partly because he didn’t like Illvers’ face, partly because he was really puzzled about the Bersbee matter, and partly because he was an individualist. This last trait had hitherto failed to assert itself in Meader’s military career. Perhaps this was because the trait was not grained deeply. But it was there, and it had been waiting for the occasion, just as it had waited on other occasions. Once at Harrow, having to do with a cricket match. Meader had been jumped on by the rest of the team and had fought them all. Once at Cambridge, having to do with a resolution drawn up by his philosophical society, Meader had punched someone in the eye. Once at the engineering school, Meader had his own ideas on a certain project. He had ended up by calling his instructor an idiot. He had been asked to leave the school. He had enrolled at another school. He had been in his final term at the other school when the call came. He was in infantry at first, and he was wounded in the fighting at Amiens. Released from hospital, he went into the engineer corps. He looked up and saw the Spitfires cutting into the massed formations of German planes. He enlisted in the R. A. F. At first he had believed that combat flying was a matter of science, of timing and mathematics. That appealed to him. It fascinated him. Later he found out that it was mostly a blend of reckless speed and laughing fatalism. It was lounging in a Dispersal Hut and playing dominoes, and getting a call from Fighter Command Headquarters to go out and argue with thirty-odd Messerschmitts moving toward the Channel coast. Running out, jumping in the Hurricane, listening to the frenzied screech of a variable-pitch propeller, lifting the ship to 10,000 feet within four minutes. And lunging madly at great numbers of Nazi planes. Punching the gun button that controlled eight Brownings. Watching the eight lines of orange tracers ripping into the rear turret of a big Junkers. Breaking through the Nazi formation. Running home to a small emergency field to re­load, re-fuel, get up there again and argue with ’em some more. It was fast, reckless. It was frantic. He found out that there was little or no mathematics involved.

  Until he had been sent to the 19th Fighter. Until this morning, when he had seen Bersbee.

  * * * *

  Now he smiled slightly at Illvers, and he said, “Are you giving me orders?”

  “I’m giving you advice. It’s good advice. You’d better take it.”

  Meader stopped smiling. He said, “Sorry, but I disagree with your line of thinking.” He turned again and he was through the doorway and already down the corridor. Illvers was coming after him. Illvers was putting the heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re going to leave Bersbee alone!” Illvers blurted.

  Very quietly Meader said, “You’re going to leave me alone.”

  “Now look here —”

  “You look,” Mender said. He came just a bit closer to Illvers and his voice was almost a whisper. “This is rather annoying. I’m willing to listen to any suggestions regarding flight maneuver. But I’m perfectly capable of handling all my other problems without any advice — or warnings.”

  Without hesitating, Illvers had an answer. He said, “That’s not the idea. we’re not specifically worried about you. Men like you, and me, and Litchington, and Hackedorn — we’re all average, and there’re others to take our places when we go. But it’s different with Bersbee. He’s outstanding. He’s almost — inhuman. He’s more valuable to the R. A. F. than a score of ordinary pilots. That’s why we’ve got to handle him like — like a — a —”

  “Vase of delicate jade,” Meader said, and mockery came into his eyes.

  But Illvers was nodding emphatically. “Yes, a vase of delicate jade, if you want to put it that way. We’ve got to take good care of Bersbee. We’ve got to cater to him just as we would cater to a highly sensitive machine. It’s plain enough, Meader, and I do wish you’d look at it the sensible way. We all realize that this sort of thing is somewhat out of bounds. It’s not contained in regulations, or orders of the day, or special duties. But it’s bloody well got to be followed out. Not one of us can break through. Bersbee must be left alone. Now, I do hope you’ll be decent about this, Meader. I think I’ve made it clear enough —”

  “Oh, quite,” Meader said. The mockery was still in his eyes, and he was smiling again.

  Illvers tightened his lips. He breathed deeply and said, “Well? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do as I damn please.”

  Illvers exhaled fast, and his arms came down fast, and his body was taut. It was held back for slightly more than a second by steel springs. Then the springs were released, and he came forward. He was chopping with his right, and his head was thrust forward, lowered somewhat, and his eyes had an angry-bull light, and he threw the left, then the right again.

  Against the wall went Meader. His upper lip was jammed against teeth. Blood was sliding from his torn upper lip and his torn gums. His mouth had a granite taste, and blood flowed over the gritty stuff. The side of his jaw was very loose.

  He bounced away from the wall, and Illvers rushed him again. Illvers came in close and pushed a short right, then a left to the belly, and Meader doubled up. He knew that Illvers was going to uppercut him. He knew that he was going to be knocked unconscious, unless he quickly found a way to get the better of his man.

  The uppercut came, and it straightened him, and once more he went back against the wall. He sagged, rolled down, and he was flat on the floor. He was hurt, and he was weak, but not as much as he pretended to be. He got up very slowly. Illvers walked in again, and the right fist was drawn back for the finishing punch. He knew then that Illvers didn’t really want to hurt him. This was Illvers’ way of impressing the idea into him. And he told himself that he really didn’t want to hurt Illvers. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He merely wanted to impress them with the idea that they couldn’t impress their ideas into him.