Chapter ­16

One morning over a week later, Jack and Wes rode their bikes to the air base. Wes was working on the Moth Monthly, the base newsletter. He pointed to the ­sky.
“Looks like some of the guys are doing manoeuvres. You’d really like to be up there, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love to fly, you know that.” Jack pointed at his big glasses and shook his ­head.

“Why do you need super eyesight to fly? There’s nothing to bump into up there.”

“There is over France and Germany. There’s ­ack-­ack around you and flak coming from the ground guns.” Jack dodged a dead ­gopher.

“You’d fit right in, though. Me, I’m more like Cathy. I just want countries to figure out how to live together. I want to write for a newspaper, and not be a war correspondent.”

“Wes, someone’s got to put Hitler and Mussolini out of business.”

“I know. Dragons have to be slain, but I don’t want to do it,” said ­Wes.

“If I was old enough, I’d go.”

“I know.”

Above their heads small planes banked, rolled and dived. Wes changed the subject. “Dexter and Cheese are afraid they might wash out. Cheese gets nosebleeds and makes mistakes. Dexter keeps gaining weight.”

“Trevor loves it,” Jack said. “And Basil feels right at home in the sky.”

“Cathy’s afraid for him,” Wes said. “Basil takes chances. Pushes the limits. That’s why she’s so gaga about him.”

“We should take Trevor and Basil out to the swimming hole at the farm, Dexter and Cheese too,” Jack suggested as they pedalled onto the ­base.

“Maybe after work if they’re free.” Wes parked in front of the administration office. Jack headed across the pavement to the hangar and stuck his bike in the rack before heading to work. Harold and some of the younger mechanics were already ­there.

“About time you got here. Your dog’s already curled up on his blanket waiting for you. lac Knight dropped him off on his way to his flying lesson. He’s going solo for the third time.”

For a second Jack envied Trevor like crazy. Then he let it ­go.

Jack tucked his lunch in his locker and tugged on his coveralls and work boots. Buddy leapt to his feet as Jack strolled toward his workspace. He knelt and played with Buddy, made him sit, shake hands and play dead. He filled Buddy’s water bowl and tossed some dog food in his dish. “You may hang out with all sorts of guys, Buddy, but you’re still my dog, and don’t you forget it.”

Buddy cocked his head and the way his jaw was set, anyone looking would have sworn the dog was ­smiling.

“Enough, Jackie.” Harold wiped sweat from his broad forehead as he came over. “I want you to wash down those two Moths to the left of the runway. Check if their bodies need any repairs. And stay clear of traffic. The flyboys are up and down like ­yo-­yos. The instructors are ­shell-­shocked from so many close calls and rescue missions.”

“How’s Angus?” Jack ­asked.

“Says he’s healing fast. I’ll put him on light duty for a few weeks.”

Just then Jimmy Boyle pulled up in his dad’s second truck. “Where do you want these oil drums?” he asked Harold. Then he saw Jack and shook his fist at ­him.

“Jack, take the tractor and show the young man where to stow the drums,” said ­Harold.

Jack climbed on the tractor. “Follow me.” He steeled himself for a ­confrontation.

He headed around the hangar to the shed at the side where the oil drums were stored, his heart beating fast. Wes wasn’t there to intimidate Jimmy with his size. Jack couldn’t run away or dodge him. He’d have to face ­him.

“So, Jackie boy?” Jimmy climbed down from the truck cab. “You’ve given those snooty British flyers a dog of mine. You’ve got the job I wanted – just because your dad owns a store, and now you’re going to stand there and tell me where to stow this stuff.” He unloaded an oil ­drum.

“I’ll help unload.” Jack strode to the back of the truck and started unloading drums and rolling them into the shed. His hands ­shook.

“Thanks for nothing, Foureyes!” Jimmy shouted Jack’s old nickname from elementary school. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“Look, Jimmy,” Jack tried to sound calm, “I found that pup out on the roadside beside his dead mother. I got the job because Harold hired me. He doesn’t even know my dad.”

Jimmy raised his muscled arms and shoved Jack against the wall of the shed. The wood rattled and creaked. Jack lifted his arms to block the punch, but Jimmy pulled one of Jack’s arms down and landed a right jab on his jaw. Jack twisted away and tripped Jimmy in the process. Dust rose. A crow ­squawked.

Jimmy jumped up quickly. “That was for getting me into trouble with my dad over the dogs. This one’s for getting the job I wanted.” He punched Jack again, this time on the nose. Jack felt blood spurt and saw a fountain of red ­stars.

He wrestled Jimmy to the ground. The two boys rolled and heaved on the gravel. Jack figured he was at least keeping Jimmy from getting in another ­punch.

“You’re a ­stuck-­up ­son-­of-­a-­gun,” Jimmy hollered. “Your brains can’t help you now.”

“You’re a bully!” yelled ­Jack.

“Jackass!”

“Idiot!”

Jimmy got an arm free and Jack knew Jimmy was going to hit him again if he didn’t get a punch in first. With the strength of desperation he sent a quick jab into Jimmy’s face. With any luck, Jimmy was going to have a black ­eye.

“What’s going on here?” Harold pulled up in the ­forklift.

Jack and Jimmy got to their feet. Jack brushed his coveralls and swabbed his bleeding nose with his hankie. He glanced sideways at Jimmy, who was rubbing his face. “It was nothing.”

“Looked like a fight to me,” said ­Harold.

Jimmy clambered into the truck cab in no time. He gunned the motor and pulled ­away.

“What was that all about?”

“Jimmy Boyle and I go back a long way.” Jack sighed. “Buddy came from their bitch. Jimmy left him by the road to die.” His whole head hurt. “I don’t understand the way his mind works. Someone else is always to blame for everything.”

“Doesn’t want to take responsibility,” Harold ­com-mented.

“I’m the opposite. I always figure, anything goes wrong, must be my fault.” Jack rolled the last of the drums into the shed. “Thanks for coming along when you did.”

“You were holding your own, Jackie Waters.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He grinned sheepishly, closed the shed door and climbed back on the ­tractor.

Harold called after him, “You better go clean yourself up. Your face is a mess.”