The Eleventh Man - Ivan Doig [68]
Ben identified the silhouette and wondered if he could be imagining.
"VIP treatment this time around, Benjamin." Jake shaded his eyes. "We rate a P-39. Hope the guy is bringing us long woolies and his aim is better than that last prick's."
There were thousands of Airacobras in the sky of war, hundreds of pilots gunning a twelve-piston engine to a full four hundred miles an hour at any given time. This one roaring in on them had no business being flown by her, Ben knew in the deepest reasoning part of himself; Cass could be on the Seattle run, or on the ground at East Base, or anywhere between. But reason did not stand a chance as he craved her into creation there in the sun-glint of the rapidly oncoming cockpit. As he watched, afraid to blink, the P-39 lowered its nose and dove toward them. Jake, waving both arms, froze into semaphore position as the plane skimmed into the clearing in the forest, low as a crop duster and fast as an artillery shell. Facing into the madcap flyover, Ben no longer knew whether to pray it was Cass or not at those controls.
The P-39 tore past so close over them they could feel the prop wash. Now he was sure it was no one but her. He felt queerly responsible: Cass only would have flown a circus stunt like that to see what condition the crash left him in.
"That," Jake declared in the corridor of dwindling roar as the fighter plane climbed sharply, "is one shit-hot pilot." Both men watched the Cobra's ascent as fliers do, as if counting contour lines of elevation.
At around fifteen hundred feet the plane pulled up and settled into circling over them.
"What the hell now?"
"Writing a message," Ben somehow was sure. "Come on, let's get way out in the middle of this mess, we don't want the drop bag to end up in another tree."
Clumsier than vertical bears, they plunged through the fallen-timber maze until they reached a marginally more open patch of muskeg. They planted themselves in anticipation there, and Jake took up waving again. "The goddamn guy doesn't have to check his spelling," he complained as the Cobra kept to its droning orbit over them for the next some minutes. "Just tell us how they're gonna get us out of here."
"He will." Ben had nearly admitted She. "Next pass, watch for the drop bag."
Both of them tensed, ready to chase down the weighted leatherine bag, like a long yellow stocking, wherever it landed.
What came sailing out of the P-39 was the size of a bulging mail sack, so accurately aimed it very nearly hit them.
Jumping back until they were certain it was through rolling, Ben and Jake needed a further instant to realize it was a duffel bag. Together they pounced and opened it. They pawed through like pirates at a treasure chest. C rations. Wool socks and gloves and watch caps. A down mummy bag. Matches. Two canteens of water. Two thermoses of hot coffee. Four cans of beer. Nestled amid it all, the message drop bag, and inside, the scrawled note:
Flyboys:
Happy to see you up and around. Proceed five miles, compass heading S/SW, to nearest lake. Bush plane will be waiting for you tomorrow—sorry I can't, but WASPs and Cobras don't swim.
Only room for one sleeping bag in the duffel, you'll have to share. Don't snuggle any closer than I would.
Jake looked up from the note as the P-39 cut another perfect tight circle over them, as if they were the bull's-eye of a target the size of Canada. "Bitch, whoever she is," he said in admiration.
The only acknowledgment Ben could think of was to throw up his hands in the possible direction of Edmonton—Go! Go! Jake looked at him for a moment, then commenced rummaging through the duffel bag. "Here's a dilemma—coffee or beer?"
"Save the beer." Ben watched the fighter plane go. "It's going to be a long night."
The five miles took them all the next day. Jake peglegged the distance, his twisted ankle splinted with halved tree branches, while Ben humped along with the precious duffel and picked out their compass route. At noon, barely