Chickenhawk: Back in the World

I turned. Across the hall from Tom’s alteration room was another doorway. I walked to it and saw an old man inside holding a shoe up against a buffing machine, his back to me. I stepped inside. When the man turned around to set the shoe on his work counter, he saw me. “Yeah?”

“You Timmy?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear you’re in charge of boots and shoes here.”

“Yeah.”

I pointed to my boots. “These things are beyond fixing,” I said.

Timmy looked down at my boots and grinned. “That’s the shit they issue to the new guys. You’re supposed to go through the exchange window to get new ones. You try getting Deacon to exchange ‘em for you?”

“Yeah. He told me this is prison.”

“That old fart’s acting more like a hack every day. He’s been here almost five years, and I don’t think he’ll leave when he’s free. If he does, he’ll probably open his own fucking jail. Prick.” Timmy looked at my boots again. “Elevens, right?”

“Right.”

Timmy stepped into a small storeroom and came back with a brand-new pair of work boots, size eleven. “Here you go. The least a body should have around here is some boots that are fit to wear.”

I sat on a wooden stool and changed boots. “You work on shoes on the outside?” I said as I laced up the new boots.

“I used to own a shoe shop,” Timmy said.

“How’d you get here, owning a shoe shop?”

“Shoes had nothing to do with it. I got stupid and agreed to fly a fucking DC-6 load of pot from Colombia.”

“DC-6?” I looked at Timmy skeptically. He looked at least sixty-five. He was gray-headed and stoop-shouldered, the least likely looking pilot I’d ever seen.

“Yeah, used to fly ‘em for the airlines. I retired ten years ago, opened up my shoe store with my brother. We were doing fine. Not getting rich, you know? But a good living. Greed got me. Some kids asked me did I want to make a hundred thousand on one flight. Said they owned a DC-6, heard I used to fly ‘em.”

I tightened up the laces and tied them off. I stood up and walked around experimentally. “How they feel?” Timmy asked.

“Great. So how’d you get caught?”

“It was an old plane, most of the instruments were broken,” Timmy said. “Got caught in the soup and couldn’t find the damn cow pasture where they wanted the stuff. When I got low on fuel, I just flew the fucker to the nearest airport and landed. Damn near made it, too.” Timmy grinned at the memory. “But they were watching the airport, Customs guys. Came aboard.”

I nodded. “I know what that feels like,” I said, standing on tiptoe to stretch the new boots. They fit perfectly, a little stiff from the newness. “Well, thanks, Timmy. These are great. Any time you want a favor, let me know.”

“I don’t care nothing about favors. There’s nothing in this camp I want except to get out of it.”

I was lying on my bunk after I’d showered, watching life in Dorm Three. A Cuban across from me coughed so hard I thought I’d see chunks of lungs coming up any second. When he finished hacking, he looked up, blinked, wiped his mouth, shook his head like a fighter who’d taken a hard punch, and lit up another cigarette. It was disgusting. I pulled my pack of Winstons out and tapped out a cigarette and lit it. I was going to quit, but I hadn’t gotten to it yet.

Barnett’s feet dangled off the edge of the bunk above me, and then he jumped down to the floor. He leaned over and said, “You read much?”

“Some,” I said.

“Here,” he said, holding a mail-order book catalog toward me.

I took the catalog. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Barnett said, walking away.

I opened the catalog and heard, “Mason? You Mason?” An inmate on crutches swung across the waxed tile floor, his crutch tips squeaking and chirping. His left leg was in a cast from his ankle to above his knee.

“Yeah,” I said. “What about it?”

“I’m a Huey pilot, too, that’s what about it!” The inmate laughed and sat down on Doc’s bed.

“No shit?”

“No shit, brother. Jack Cantrell,” he said, holding out his hand. “There’s at least three of us here.”

I shook his hand. “Three of us? Three Huey pilots?”

“That’s a fact. Above the best!” Jack Cantrell yelled the Army Aviator’s motto.

“All right!” I said. “Pleased to meet you, Jack. Who were you with?”

“Flew guns with the Americal.” He immediately rolled up his pants leg and showed me gnarled scars on his good leg. “Got raked in my cockpit, Bob.” He rubbed the puckered skin around his knee and shin. He crossed his arms, raised his sweatshirt, and showed me a pencil-thick half-inch-deep indentation in his chest. “A fucking tracer came through my chicken plate just far enough to stick into my chest. Sat there and burned into me.” He let his shirt drop and rolled his pants leg down. “You?”

“You make me feel bad, Jack. I just wrote a book about my tour, and the worst I got was the clap.”

“Hey,” he said, laughing. “Lucky for you. I don’t mind. I’m glad you wrote it. People need to know what it was like over there.”

I made a face that dismissed the compliment and shook my head. “What’s the cast for?”