U.S.A_ - John Dos Passos [119]
Then one morning a War Department telegram came.
Dad was in Austin on business so she opened it. Bud had crashed, kil ed. First thing Daughter thought was how hard it would hit Dad. The phone rang; it was a long distance cal from San Antonio, sounded like Joe Wash-burn's voice. "Is that you, Joe?" she said weakly. "Daugh-ter, I want to speak to your father," came his grave drawl.
"I know . . . O Joe."
"It was his first solo flight. He was a great boy. Nobody seems to know how it happened. Must have been defect in structure. I'l cal Austin. I know where to get hold of him.
. . . I've got the number . . . see you soon, Daughter." Joe rang off. Daughter went into her room and burrowed face down into the bed that hadn't been made up. For a minute she tried to imagine that she hadn't gotten up yet, that she dreamed the phone ringing and Joe's voice. Then
-280-she thought of Bud so sharply it was as if he'd come into the room, the way he laughed, the hard pressure of his long thin hand over her hands when he'd suddenly grabbed the wheel when they'd skidded going around a corner into San Antonio the last time she'd driven him down after a leave, the clean anxious lean look of his face above the tight khaki col ar of the uniform. Then she heard Joe's voice again: Must have been some defect in structure.
She went down and jumped into her car. At the fil ing-station where she fil ed up with gas and oil the garageman asked her how the boys liked it in the army. She couldn't stop to tel him about it now. "Bul y, they like it fine," she said, with a grin that hurt her like a slap in the face. She wired Dad at his lawpartner's office that she was com-ing and pul ed out of town for Austin. The roads were in bad shape, it made her feel better to feel the car plough through the muddy ruts and the water spraying out in a wave on either side when she went through a puddle at fifty.
She averaged fortyfive al the way and got to Austin before dark. Dad had already gone down to San Antonio on the train. Dead tired, she started off. She had a blow-out and it took her a long time to get it fixed; it was mid-night before she drew up at the Menger. Automatical y she looked at herself in the little mirror before going in. There were streaks of mud on her face and her eyes were red.
In the lobby she found Dad and Joe Washburn sitting side by side with burntout cigars in their mouths. Their faces looked a little alike. Must have been the grey drawn look that made them look alike. She kissed them both.
"Dad, you ought to go to bed," she said briskly. "You look al in." "I suppose I might as wel . . . There's nothing left to do," he said.
"Wait for me, Joe, until I get Dad fixed up," she said
-281-in a low voice as she passed him. She went up to the room with Dad, got herself a room adjoining, ruffled his hair and kissed him very gently and left him to go to bed. When she got back down to the lobby Joe was sitting in the same place with the same expression on his face. It made her mad to see him like that.
Her sharp brisk voice surprised her. "Come outside a minute, Joe, I want to walk around a little." The rain had cleared the air. It was a transparent early summer night.
"Look here, Joe, who's responsible for the condition of the planes? I've got to know."
"Daughter, how funny you talk . . . what you ought to do is get some sleep, you're al overwrought." "Joe, you answer my question." "But Daughter, don't you see nobody's responsible. The army's a big institution. Mistakes are inevitable. There's a lot of money being made by contractors of one kind or another. Whatever you say aviation is in its infancy we al
knew the risks before we joined up."
"If Bud