Pearl Harbor Rewrite III
"Fusco, Anthony," I called cheerfully. One of the guys in line stepped foreward, looking nervous.
"Sweetheart, do you really have to do this? I'm not gonna get yellow fever in my barracks."
"Government procedure," I shot back. "And my name is Caroline, not 'sweetheart'." Anthony grinned down towards the floor. "Drop your skivs," I said. He did so and I gored him. He yelped and slapped his head down on the table.
"Oh, don't be such a baby!" I said, laughing in a friendly manner. "Up and read the bottom row of the eye chart." He did so, easily. I noticed over his shoulder a cocky-looking pilot looking extremely nervous reading something to himself from a slip in his hand. I guessed quickly that it was the letters.
"Slow down, fly boy –" I said over Anthony's hand. "Gimmi the cheat sheet." The pilot started, blushed, and handed me the sheet. I crumpled it, smiled at him, and tossed it over my shoulder. I finished up with Anthony and held out my hand for the pilot's file. Rafe McCrawley, I read.
"Ma'am," he said, nodding.
"Okay, Rafe, read the top line," I said cheerfully.
He looked at the chart. His buddy behind him looked worried. Rafe himself was trying to look sure of himself.
"C . . . J . . . sorry, J, C, P . . . R . . . Q . . . R, Q – sorry Ma'am."
I frowned slightly.
"Look, Ma'am, I know how this looks –"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but army and navy requires 20-20 vision."
"Oh! It's not a problem with my eyes, I mean, I can see – I can hit a runnin' rabbit with a three dollar pistol, I just got a problem with letters, that's all. I just get 'em mix – mixed up, is – is all – I just get 'em ba- backwards is all." He was suddenly pathetically anxious that I not fail him.
"Well, maybe after some schooling – "
"No, no I had schooling! The teachers just didn't no what to make of it! Here, look –" he pointed at the file. "—my math and special reasoning skills are all excellent."
"But you barely passed the written exam," I said, weakening.
"But I did pass it!" he insisted. He leaned foreward. "Look, Ma'am – I'm never gonna be an english teacher. But I know why I'm here – to fly a plane. If that file says if I guy can't read while, he can't be a pilot, I'm still the best pilot in this room. And you don't dog fight with manuals, you don't fly with gauges. It's all about feeling and speed and letting that plane become like a part of your body." He put his elbows on the table and looked me right in the eye. "Ma'am, please – don't take my wings." He was scared, tense.
I looked at him long and hard, and suddenly I realized something.
"Read the bottom row again." His shoulders slumped but he stood up and read,
"J . . . L, K . . . no, J, K, L – sorry – M, P, Q, B."
The line read,
"J L K M Q P B"
I looked up at him – god, he was tall! – and said,
"Pull that chair over." I indicated a chair to the side. He did and I wagged him over beside me. He sat down, nervously. I had written out a couple words and I asked him to read them for me. He was slow and unsure of himself, and stumbled, but, as I had thought, he got the letters right, but out of order. God, for Dog, for instance.
"Rafe, have you ever heard of something called 'dyslexia'?" I asked him.
"No Ma'am," he said.
"Caroline," I smiled at him. He grinned tentatively back. "It means you've got a problem on the right side of your brain that makes it difficult for you to see things in proper order, which makes reading and writing difficult for you. See that?" I pointed to the word "dog". "That says 'dog', not 'god'."
He frowned, understanding. "So what's that mean."
I picked up the stamp with "approved" on it and slapped in on his file page. He sighed with relief, his whole figure sagging.
"Katie, station four!" I stood up, handed him his file, and hurried off.
If I had looked over my shoulder, I would have seen him looking stunned, staring at me from the back.
I was at my station, preparing some shots, when Rafe sauntered up. I looked up and grinned at him.
"Ma'am – Caroline – I really didn't have a chance to thank you –"
"Drop your skivs," I cut in.
He did so and continued,
"I mean, you didn't have to pass me, and you did – and – and – thank you," he finished quietly.
"Your welcome," I smiled, and flicked the shot.
"And I just wanted to ask you if I could take you out for dinner tonight and maybe we could – daaakk!" he yelped, suddenly.
I had stabbed him with the needle, and I said cheerfully,
"Gosh, did I poke too deep?"
"I – I uh think you hit the bone there," he winced.
"Sorry," I said and started to prepare the second needle, noticing meanwhile, that he had a very cute butt.
"Well, and I was wondering if you might actually, like, like me and go . . ." he trailed off, for I had leaned over and put my face close to his.
"How did you know? They never taught us how to deal with these . . . feelings."
"What feelings?" He said, warily, beginning to sound shifty, nervous, and excited.
"Well, " I whispered, "It's kind of like – this – " and I poked him again.
"Ow!" He yelped. I chuckled. I could tell I liked this guy, but it didn't mean he was going to get me easy . . .
He came back over one more time to try again. He was acting very strange, though. His voice was thick.
"Ma'am, I really, really lick you." He put his hand to his mouth. "Like you! I didn't mean to say that. I just want to ask you if I can donate dinner. Er, buy you dinner."
I flipped open his chart, which still lay on the counter.
"This isn't your chart!" I said, surprised.
"Naw, it's uh – this fella over here's . . ." he gestured vaguely towards the ground.
"Have you already have this shot?" I was disturbed.
"Yeah, well once!" He said. "Just, can I ask you out?" Suddenly, he just collapsed onto the ground, slamming his nose onto the counter in the process. He groaned. Evelyn, from station two, stopped short and cried,
"Oh! What'd you do to him?!"
They whisked him away pretty quickly, so I didn't see him until I was leaving the building and I saw him jumping off a brick wall and he ran over. His nose was all bandaged up.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" I asked, concerned.
"Yeah, I'm fine! This is just standard – stuff –" I knew it wasn't, but I didn't mention it.
"Look, I got some genuine French Champagne, from France . . . I was thinking, maybe we could celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" I asked.
"Well . . . you being my hero, for one thing," he said.
"Ok," I agreed and sat down on the steps with him.
"I really want to thank you for what you did today. And set your mind at ease – I really am a great pilot."
"And if you have a fault – it's not excessive modesty," I said, laughingly.
"No," he agreed. "If I have a fault, it's candor." He was looking at me intensely. "You are just so –" he broke off as the cork slammed into his nose. He groaned and turned his head away so I wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Then he turned back and tried to pour the champagne, but his hands were shaking.
"The . . . cork just got away from me there – uhhh . . . " he groaned. "I'm sorry – it hurts – it hurts somethin' fierce!"
I laughed and said,
"Here – oh, it's bleeding! Here!" I leaned him back on my lap. "Lie still." I picked up some snow, balled it up and held it to his nose. He yelled,
"It's cold!"
"It'll stop the bleeding. Lie still!"
"Aw, I ruined everything – I'm sorry – it's COLD!"
"Lie still," I said soothingly. He finally did and looked up at me.
"You are so beautiful it hurts," he whispered.
I smiled down at him.
"It's your nose that hurts."
"Ah . . . I think it's my heart." And he leaned foreward and kissed me.
"Fusco, Anthony," I called cheerfully. One of the guys in line stepped foreward, looking nervous.
"Sweetheart, do you really have to do this? I'm not gonna get yellow fever in my barracks."
"Government procedure," I shot back. "And my name is Caroline, not 'sweetheart'." Anthony grinned down towards the floor. "Drop your skivs," I said. He did so and I gored him. He yelped and slapped his head down on the table.
"Oh, don't be such a baby!" I said, laughing in a friendly manner. "Up and read the bottom row of the eye chart." He did so, easily. I noticed over his shoulder a cocky-looking pilot looking extremely nervous reading something to himself from a slip in his hand. I guessed quickly that it was the letters.
"Slow down, fly boy –" I said over Anthony's hand. "Gimmi the cheat sheet." The pilot started, blushed, and handed me the sheet. I crumpled it, smiled at him, and tossed it over my shoulder. I finished up with Anthony and held out my hand for the pilot's file. Rafe McCrawley, I read.
"Ma'am," he said, nodding.
"Okay, Rafe, read the top line," I said cheerfully.
He looked at the chart. His buddy behind him looked worried. Rafe himself was trying to look sure of himself.
"C . . . J . . . sorry, J, C, P . . . R . . . Q . . . R, Q – sorry Ma'am."
I frowned slightly.
"Look, Ma'am, I know how this looks –"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but army and navy requires 20-20 vision."
"Oh! It's not a problem with my eyes, I mean, I can see – I can hit a runnin' rabbit with a three dollar pistol, I just got a problem with letters, that's all. I just get 'em mix – mixed up, is – is all – I just get 'em ba- backwards is all." He was suddenly pathetically anxious that I not fail him.
"Well, maybe after some schooling – "
"No, no I had schooling! The teachers just didn't no what to make of it! Here, look –" he pointed at the file. "—my math and special reasoning skills are all excellent."
"But you barely passed the written exam," I said, weakening.
"But I did pass it!" he insisted. He leaned foreward. "Look, Ma'am – I'm never gonna be an english teacher. But I know why I'm here – to fly a plane. If that file says if I guy can't read while, he can't be a pilot, I'm still the best pilot in this room. And you don't dog fight with manuals, you don't fly with gauges. It's all about feeling and speed and letting that plane become like a part of your body." He put his elbows on the table and looked me right in the eye. "Ma'am, please – don't take my wings." He was scared, tense.
I looked at him long and hard, and suddenly I realized something.
"Read the bottom row again." His shoulders slumped but he stood up and read,
"J . . . L, K . . . no, J, K, L – sorry – M, P, Q, B."
The line read,
"J L K M Q P B"
I looked up at him – god, he was tall! – and said,
"Pull that chair over." I indicated a chair to the side. He did and I wagged him over beside me. He sat down, nervously. I had written out a couple words and I asked him to read them for me. He was slow and unsure of himself, and stumbled, but, as I had thought, he got the letters right, but out of order. God, for Dog, for instance.
"Rafe, have you ever heard of something called 'dyslexia'?" I asked him.
"No Ma'am," he said.
"Caroline," I smiled at him. He grinned tentatively back. "It means you've got a problem on the right side of your brain that makes it difficult for you to see things in proper order, which makes reading and writing difficult for you. See that?" I pointed to the word "dog". "That says 'dog', not 'god'."
He frowned, understanding. "So what's that mean."
I picked up the stamp with "approved" on it and slapped in on his file page. He sighed with relief, his whole figure sagging.
"Katie, station four!" I stood up, handed him his file, and hurried off.
If I had looked over my shoulder, I would have seen him looking stunned, staring at me from the back.
I was at my station, preparing some shots, when Rafe sauntered up. I looked up and grinned at him.
"Ma'am – Caroline – I really didn't have a chance to thank you –"
"Drop your skivs," I cut in.
He did so and continued,
"I mean, you didn't have to pass me, and you did – and – and – thank you," he finished quietly.
"Your welcome," I smiled, and flicked the shot.
"And I just wanted to ask you if I could take you out for dinner tonight and maybe we could – daaakk!" he yelped, suddenly.
I had stabbed him with the needle, and I said cheerfully,
"Gosh, did I poke too deep?"
"I – I uh think you hit the bone there," he winced.
"Sorry," I said and started to prepare the second needle, noticing meanwhile, that he had a very cute butt.
"Well, and I was wondering if you might actually, like, like me and go . . ." he trailed off, for I had leaned over and put my face close to his.
"How did you know? They never taught us how to deal with these . . . feelings."
"What feelings?" He said, warily, beginning to sound shifty, nervous, and excited.
"Well, " I whispered, "It's kind of like – this – " and I poked him again.
"Ow!" He yelped. I chuckled. I could tell I liked this guy, but it didn't mean he was going to get me easy . . .
He came back over one more time to try again. He was acting very strange, though. His voice was thick.
"Ma'am, I really, really lick you." He put his hand to his mouth. "Like you! I didn't mean to say that. I just want to ask you if I can donate dinner. Er, buy you dinner."
I flipped open his chart, which still lay on the counter.
"This isn't your chart!" I said, surprised.
"Naw, it's uh – this fella over here's . . ." he gestured vaguely towards the ground.
"Have you already have this shot?" I was disturbed.
"Yeah, well once!" He said. "Just, can I ask you out?" Suddenly, he just collapsed onto the ground, slamming his nose onto the counter in the process. He groaned. Evelyn, from station two, stopped short and cried,
"Oh! What'd you do to him?!"
They whisked him away pretty quickly, so I didn't see him until I was leaving the building and I saw him jumping off a brick wall and he ran over. His nose was all bandaged up.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" I asked, concerned.
"Yeah, I'm fine! This is just standard – stuff –" I knew it wasn't, but I didn't mention it.
"Look, I got some genuine French Champagne, from France . . . I was thinking, maybe we could celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" I asked.
"Well . . . you being my hero, for one thing," he said.
"Ok," I agreed and sat down on the steps with him.
"I really want to thank you for what you did today. And set your mind at ease – I really am a great pilot."
"And if you have a fault – it's not excessive modesty," I said, laughingly.
"No," he agreed. "If I have a fault, it's candor." He was looking at me intensely. "You are just so –" he broke off as the cork slammed into his nose. He groaned and turned his head away so I wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Then he turned back and tried to pour the champagne, but his hands were shaking.
"The . . . cork just got away from me there – uhhh . . . " he groaned. "I'm sorry – it hurts – it hurts somethin' fierce!"
I laughed and said,
"Here – oh, it's bleeding! Here!" I leaned him back on my lap. "Lie still." I picked up some snow, balled it up and held it to his nose. He yelled,
"It's cold!"
"It'll stop the bleeding. Lie still!"
"Aw, I ruined everything – I'm sorry – it's COLD!"
"Lie still," I said soothingly. He finally did and looked up at me.
"You are so beautiful it hurts," he whispered.
I smiled down at him.
"It's your nose that hurts."
"Ah . . . I think it's my heart." And he leaned foreward and kissed me.