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Mayann. You!”
    â€œDon’t you ever feel that way?”
    â€œOh, Mayann. Goodness!”
    Ferguson had jumped up to make room for a waiter with a trayful of glasses and German champagne. “Put it right here,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s all that for?” Harlan asked.
    â€œNothing,” Ferguson said. “Just champagne. A celebration.”
    He was passing the bottles around to be opened. When the first cork popped there was a spurt that went across the table. Mayann jumped back.
    â€œYou idiot,” she said.
    Cassada was holding a bottle by the neck, foam pouring over his hand. Standing up straight then, unsteady, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” The front of her dress was wet. She was holding it away from herself.
    Cassada had come around the table and offered her his handkerchief. “Here, use this, Mrs. Dunning.”
    â€œYou use it.”
    With the handkerchief still folded in a square, he bent down and began stroking. Mayann held her dress taut.
    â€œJust stick to the wet spots,” she said. She could see him blush. He looked up.
    â€œI’m really sorry, Mrs. Dunning. Can I pay to have it cleaned?”
    She disregarded this.
    â€œCan I get you a glass of champagne?” he asked.
    â€œInstead of just pouring it on me, you mean?”
    He didn’t know what to say. “I’m really sorry.”
    He held the bottle in both hands while he poured, the bottom against his stomach. “Here you are,” he said politely.
    The champagne made it a party. Lank-haired and whispering Ferguson was inviting the singer to ride into town with him on his motorcycle after the band finished. Harlan was talking to her, too. The gleam of her bare shoulders was drawing them to her, the white dress. The bachelors were in their glory. They were standing against the wall, singing and spilling champagne over themselves,shaking the bottle with a thumb over the top and then spraying it around, faces wet as swimmers’. The singing got louder and cruder. The bar closed but nobody left. Finally the club officer came by.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Dunning told him with a confident air.
    â€œCertainly, Major,” the club officer said. He just wanted them to watch out for the furniture.
    â€œWe’re not going to hurt it,” somebody said.
    They were certainly spilling enough champagne, the club officer remarked.
    â€œAhh,” Cassada muttered, “so that’s where it’s going.”
    Dunning, undisturbed by the incident of the champagne, put an arm around Cassada’s shoulders. The singer was gone. She had sneaked out after the final number with a bandsman’s coat around her. “Well, how do you like the squadron, son?”
    â€œI guess I like it fine.”
    â€œYou guess ? What the hell! Don’t you know you are in the best goddamn squadron in the Air Force. You guess ? Let me tell you something, people would kill to be in the spot you’re in. The best squadron and the best planes. Captain Isbell!” he called. “Who the hell is this man?”
    â€œHe’s a new lieutenant we’ve got.”
    â€œTell me his name again.”
    â€œLieutenant Cassada.”
    â€œIs that your name?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Cassada said.
    â€œDon’t you know anything?” Dunning demanded and squeezed Cassada’s shoulder as hard as he could, even grimacing as he did so.

In the November afternoon, deep blue, the clouds immaculate and tall, over the radio came a warning, first on tower frequency, then on that of each of the squadrons, repeated urgently, over and over,
    â€œAttention, all 5th Group aircraft. Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. You are advised to return to base immediately. Return to base immediately.”
    Snow showers had been reported moving in from Luxembourg. The field was expected to go down to five hundred and