He wore just two ribbons on his blouse – the Croix de guerre of France and the Distinguished Flying Cross.
"He told me," I said curtly.
There was a curious look on the lieutenant colonel's face.
"How is Willi?"
The General's voice cut in before I could answer.
"We came out here to look over an airplane," be said in a clipped voice, "not to exchange information about mutual friends."
It was my turn to be surprised.
I flashed a quick look at the lieutenant colonel but a curtain had dropped over his face. I could see, though, that there was no love lost between the two.
"Yes, sir," he said quickly. He turned and looked at the plane.
"How do you think she looks, Forrester?"
Forrester cleared his throat. "Interesting, sir," he said. He turned toward me. "Variable-pitch propellers?" I nodded.
He had good eyes to see that in this dim light.
"Unusual concept," he said, "setting the wings where they are and sweeping them back.
Should give her about four times the usual lift area." "They do," I said. Thank God for at least one man who knew what it was all about.
"I asked how you thought she looks, Forrester?" the General repeated testily.
The curtain dropped down over Forrester's face again as he turned.
"Very unusual, sir. Different."
The General nodded.
"That's what I thought.
Ugly.
Like a toad sitting there."
I'd had about enough of his bullshit.
"Does the General judge planes the same way he'd judge dames in a beauty contest?"
"Of course not!" the General snapped. "But there are certain conventions of design that are recognized as standard.
For example, the new Curtiss fighter we looked at the other day. There's a plane that looks like a plane, not like a bomb. With wings attached."
"That baby over there carries twice as much armor, plus a thousand pounds of bombs, seven hundred and fifty miles farther, five thousand feet higher and eighty miles an hour faster than the Curtiss fighter you're talking about!" I retorted.
"Curtiss builds good planes," the General said stiffly.
I stared at him. There wasn't any use in arguing. It was like talking to a stone wall.
"I'm not saying they don't, General," I said.
"Curtiss has been building good airplanes for many years.
But I'm saying this one is better than anything around."
General Gaddis turned to Morrissey.
"We're ready to see a demonstration of your plane," he said stiffly. "That is, if your pilot is through arguing."
Morrissey shot a nervous look at me.
Apparently the General hadn't even caught my name.
I nodded at him and turned back to the hangar.
"Roll her out!" I called to the mechanics, who were standing there waiting.
Morrissey, General Gaddis and his aides walked out.
When I got outside I saw that Morrissey and the others had formed a group around the General but Forrester stood a little to one side, talking to a young woman.
I shot a quick look at her. She was stuff, all right – wild eyes and sensuous mouth.
I followed the plane out onto the runway. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around.
It was Morrissey.
"You shouldn't have teed off on the General like that."
I grinned at him.
"Probably did the old bastard good.
He's got enough yes men around him to be a movie producer."
"All the same, it's tough selling him as it is.
I found out Curtiss is bidding their planes in at a hundred and fifty thousand each and you know the best we can do is two twenty-five."
"So what?" I said.
"It's the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad.