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He didn't fit . The other men were slobs.
    Theirs was the uniform of the day, and the night, and it didn't matter because they had nothing to wear but ragged and stolen clothes. Alex Bartimo, who flew copilot in Whip Russel's airplane, was not and never had been a slob. Never. No matter what he wore, which at this moment consisted of old trousers cut into shorts with neatly hemmed edges, a shirt fashioned into what might pass for a rakish vest, and, sneakers. White sneakers. In a supply situation generously described as chaotic, Alex had discovered by the peculiarities of the quartermaster a case of white shoe polish. His sneakers were always white. No socks. Yet the man — not his attire — was impeccable. He was a polished reflection of hygiene and a once-upon-a-time social world. He was also an enigmatic sore thumb in a crowd of ragamuffins.
    Alex sighed at the question of flies and a breeze murmured by his hulking companion.
    "Wrong, old man," he said in clipped, precise wording. "They do not maybe make the breeze, to quote your colorful and oafish term. They are adept and adroit, but I daresay you are too thick in the skull to appreciate aerobatic skill. It lies beyond your comprehension, which is why the Japanese do so much damage to that crudely flown machine of yours."
    The other pilots of the Brigade smiled tolerantly. Psycho always walked into the verbal sandtraps and Alex always neatly buried him. Yet a man would have to be blind not to discern the deep bond between the two pilots.
    There were other pilots in the club, too, men from the B-17 bombers, others from the Marauders, still others from transports and still more without any aircraft at all. A few fighter pilots sat at a far table, uncomfortable in the midst of bomber teams who went to war at a range beyond the reach of the fighters.
    A B-17 pilot edged to the bar with Psycho and Alex. He motioned to the latter, receiving the cool response of a nudged eyebrow. Alex Bartimo was clannish to a fault with his own men. But this man eased his curiosity into the open. "You're the copilot for this Russel, aren't you? The guy who leads your outfit?"
    Alex Bartimo blinked his eyes. Once.
    "I hear they call him Whip. Like that bullwhip he's got painted on your airplane, with the death's head. Is what they say about that guy true? Really true, I mean?"
    It was a mistake. It could have been a mistake. Conversation among the Death's Head Brigade crews went stock-still. The pilot who'd voiced the question stared from one unmoving face to another. The B-17 driver stiffened, staring from one man to another.
    "Hey… come off it, you people. What the hell did I say to rattle your cages?"
    Psycho leaned sideways on the bar, massive forearms bearing his weight. The dumb Polack was suddenly gone, and in his place was a very large, very sensitive man. "We're touchy about the captain," Psycho rumbled, and you could tell from the tone of his voice that it was Captain, and not captain. "Very touchy. Most of us would be dead without that — that guy, as you call him."
    The B-17 pilot, Tod Chippola, shook his head. "You people are reading me all wrong."
    He hesitated, and they waited. "You fly in here like a parade review at Kelly Field, and we recognize the things you're flying, and it dawns on us what outfit you really are.
    We've heard a lot about you."
    He laughed harshly. "You're touchy about the captain?" He laughed again. "I'll tell you people something," he said as he looked around the club. "Any son of a bitch in this room wants to give up a seat in one of those B-25s, I'm your replacement." Again he looked around. "No takers? Shit." He stared directly at Psycho, and he wasn't backing down an inch. "You think we'd rather sit here on the ground with that wreck we got out there in the desert? I'll buy a pilot's seat in your outfit, for Christ's sake."
    Tension flowed away into the heat. Psycho took the measure of the other man, rested a beefy hand gently on his shoulder. "The