View From The Air

This edition is published by PICKLE PARTNERS PUBLISHING—www.picklepartnerspublishing.com

To join our mailing list for new titles or for issues with our books – picklepublishing@gmail.com

Or on Facebook

Text originally published in 1953 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

VIEW FROM THE AIR

BY

HUGH FOSBURGH

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

DEDICATION 6

CHAPTER ONE 7

CHAPTER TWO 31

CHAPTER THREE 59

CHAPTER FOUR 72

CHAPTER FIVE 78

CHAPTER SIX 91

CHAPTER SEVEN 101

CHAPTER EIGHT 118

CHAPTER NINE 129

CHAPTER TEN 138

CHAPTER ELEVEN 155

CHAPTER TWELVE 163

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 168

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 178

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 185

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 193

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 201

DEDICATION

To PIETER JAMES

and JAMES

and UNCLE PIETER.

CHAPTER ONE

ALL DAY, since he’d waked up that morning, he’d felt lightheaded, in a daze. There was nothing real in the things he was doing.

He’d snap out of it in a minute and know he’d been dreaming.

Now, it was three o’clock, and he had just come back to the office from the swearing-in routine down on Whitehall Street, and he was cleaning out his desk. It was a simple process—the company stuff he left where it was, his personal letters and papers he tore into small pieces. As usual, he had acquired nothing in his two years here that he wanted to take with him.

He had thought that this was going to be a great day, a day of release, when everything would be clear and right. When even the final talk with Priscilla would seem like the right thing. And the clearest, Tightest, best part of it all was going to be when he walked into that plush office down the hall, and told Dave Short, with cool finesse, that David Short and World Magazine could go to hell. In that interview, he proposed to wipe out the bitterness and frustration of two years. It was going to be great.

But the day wasn’t turning out like that. Everything wasn’t clear and right. It was as if he hadn’t thought things out very well after all, but now it was too late, he had lost control and was being carried along in a daze. He felt irresponsible and guilty and scared.

He called Priscilla on the phone and there was nothing in his voice to tell her how he felt. He said, Miss Landon, this is your steady, Mr. Gibson——

She said, Pleasedtameetcha, and even saying that, there was that clear lilting quality in her voice that enchanted him.

He asked her to meet him at the Green Door at seven. She asked what was the matter with her apartment, at six, the way they’d planned. He lied to make it easier—he said he had to work late and the Green Door was nearer. For some reason, the Green Door was a better place than her apartment for the thing he was going to do.

Priscilla agreed, said, Don’t be slothful about getting there and hung up. He felt guiltier than ever, and doubted that he had the guts to go through with it.

There was nothing left to do. He paced the cubicle, then on a sudden whim, walked down the hall to Meyer’s office He would say good-bye to Meyer and tell him what he was going to do, and they would have a farewell drink. Then, while they drank, Gibson would tell him that the only unfinished business was a short sweet interlude with Dave Short, and they would laugh about it and that way, maybe, some of Gibson’s confidence would come back.

But Meyer was busy. He was talking to some sort of a British Army Officer, and when Gibson looked in, he waved in a preoccupied way. Gibson went back to his cubicle. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and immediately got up again. He said Hell— and went straight to Short’s office.

Short was alone, which was unusual, because he didn’t like to be alone. He liked to operate in the company of eager subordinates.

He was standing at the long table, thumbing through a set of London bomb-damage photographs. He glanced up quickly, annoyed, as Gibson came unannounced into the room

Are you busy, Dave?

Short made a gesture to indicate that he was very busy of course, and that Gibson would have to wait. He leafed through the pictures with one hand and scraggled his gray hair with the other.

It was an act knew it. Those pictures had been in the office a week, and Short had already made a layout Short was being Short, that’s all.

Gibson put his hands in his pockets lounged against the wall, and felt his hatred coming to a boil—the built-up hatred that can only come from knowing the other person doesn’t care whether he is hated or not, that he is in a superior position and able to ignore it.

Short had scrutinized the whole set of pictures, and now he was leaning over, studying the last one.

He spoke without looking up, casual. How about it? You want to go on that carrier shakedown cruise? He stacked the set of pictures and started to go through them again.

I’m afraid I can’t. That would rile him—saying just that and nothing more. Short liked his editors to give full accounts of everything. Full enough so that he could interrupt when he was satisfied.

Short started selecting certain pictures, making a pile of them Good story for you. Might get a text piece.

I’m afraid I can’t. Gibson gave a short laugh, which annoyed him. He felt like a mouse down a hole, squeaking defiance at the cat.

Short stuck on one picture, glared at it, and chewed his lower lip. What’s the matter? Get seasick? The way he asked, he didn’t give a damn what was the matter.

Gibson tried to be casual. Not that I know of. As an afterthought—I’m in the army.

Short shot him a glance, then hurried through some more pictures. Then he stacked the pictures, with finality, as if he’d suddenly realized the game was useless, that he wasn’t winning. For the first time, he looked directly at Gibson. How come?

I enlisted. I report in three days.

Short did something with his head and shoulders that was halfway between a shrug and a gesture of surprise. Then he turned away and started to pace the room.

Gibson watched him making up his mind which attitude to take, whether he should be sympathetic with this example of patriotism, or sarcastic, or plain sore.

He hadn’t made up his mind when he spoke again. Kind of sudden, isn’t it?

I’ve been working up to it for quite a while.

What’d you join? Army?

The air force cadets. Gibson took a package of cigarettes from his pocket. The eager beavers—so-called, he added, knowing it would irritate Short because Short made a fetish of being supercilious about the air force. To him, pilots were ‘glamor boys’ and cadets were ‘eager beavers.’

Short made another turn of the room, and when he faced Gibson again, he was chewing his lower lip and playing pocket pool with both hands. You’re pretty old for that, aren’t you?

You mean I’m old enough to know better?

They have an age limit or something, don’t they?

In two months, I’ll be too old. That’s why I hurried.

Hmmmmm Short took his hands from his pockets and went to scraggling his hair. We’d have probably put you on an overseas job.

This time, Gibson gave a real laugh. That’s another reason.

Short peered at him. Don’t like it?

There are plenty of better men than I am.

Everybody’s got to learn some time.

Several answers to that flashed through Gibson’s mind. I’m afraid I’m not one of those bright young men who can learn the knack in a couple of weeks. Or—If I’m a good boy, do you promise me six weeks’ leave next year to write an authoritative book? Or—"World Magazine has a school for war photographers. How about one for correspondents?" He didn’t say any of them because, now, all he wanted was to end this interview and get out.

So did Short. When do you plan to leave?

Right now. I’ve cleaned up all my work.

Gibson saw that passionate angry glance, and then Short was pacing again. Told anyone else?

No.

More pacing. Better find out about this Service Men’s Benefit Fund we have. Don’t know. You may not qualify. Short produced a quick cold smile. Pretty short notice.

I guess I’ll finesse it.

Better see Perry. He’s in charge of it. Then Short was coming across the room, smiling, with his hand out. Well, good luck to you.

Thanks. Gibson shook hands, and turned. Good-bye. He was almost out the door when Short spoke again.

Er, John.

Gibson looked back.

Come see us when you get back.

Thank you, Dave, and he went out, and was halfway to the elevator before the reaction hit him. That son of a bitch. He knows it’ll be a long time before I get back and by that time he figures to be in God’s country on the thirty-third floor.

Waiting for the elevator, he already felt like an outsider, unimportant and castoff. It didn’t occur to him that Dave Short was the only man who knew he was leaving and had said good-bye.

* * * * *

He was in the back room, at the comer table, where he could watch for Priscilla. He was on his third drink, and he wasn’t thinking about Dave Short. He was trying to make up a speech for Priscilla that would explain—and make it right to her why he had quit World, and joined the army, and wasn’t going to marry her.

He hadn’t got very far with the speech. He hadn’t gotten anywhere, really, except to put the enlistment card on the table where she would see it first thing—and to compose a few opening statements that were all bad. "Listen, Priscilla. Listen to me for a few minutes and please don’t interrupt. I’ll tell you why I’ve gone and done it. It’s because I’m fed up with World helping to mold public opinion when I haven’t God’s faintest notion of what that opinion should be. I’m sick of working with smug people who think they do know what it should be or—even worse—don’t even think—they just take it for granted. Nuts. That sounded pompous. Try again. I’m fed up with the hullabaloo here in New York and everybody playing intellectual guessing games about the war. Nobody knows the right answer and everybody makes noises as if he did. I don’t know the answers either and I’m sick of pretending that I do. That was no way to start. He and Priscilla had been through that many times, and agreed on it. All right. Try this—I had a chance to be a war correspondent. As far as I’m concerned, I want to stay out of that trap. It’s too damn easy. First thing you know, I’d begin to think I really knew what I was writing about, and that would be fatal." Boy, Gibson, you really are a Christer.

And then Priscilla came in the door.

God, she was lovely. It struck him, the way it always did, as a revelation, as a wonderful sunrise that she was, really, as lovely as he remembered. And it came to him as an ever fresh, ever-startling fact that she was his girl, one hundred per cent his girl.

He stood up, smiling, almost laughing, and watched her make her way through the crowd. She seemed to sense that the men were looking at her, and to be pleased, but she wasn’t self-conscious about it—she just looked happy. She was wonderful.

Without thinking, he picked the enlistment card off the table and stuck it out of sight in his pocket.

You’ve done it again, he said, indicating the new hat. It was some sort of a pillbox affair, black and white, with a veil that came over her eyes.

It was a fine hat, and Priscilla knew it. Thanks for your cordial greeting. He helped with her coat and then she turned her head so he could see the hat from the rear. How do you like it? Somewhat chic, hunh?

You’ve got a new hair get-up, was all he said. When she turned to look at him, they both laughed. I’ve told you many times you ought to give your money to me. I’d either save it, or spend it wisely and well.

Priscilla said what Gibson sometimes said when he was imitating a bevy of females. Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, and it made him laugh again. What else could I do? she asked. You put me off until seven, and today was payday. I couldn’t just mope around waiting for you, could I?

Not you, you couldn’t.

How do you really like it?

It’s tremendous.

That was what she’d been waiting to hear. I thought you’d like it. Now I’ll buy you a drink.

I’ve already ordered you one. You can have some of mine until it comes.

She had some of his. How many of these have you had? She gave him a sharp look.

Several.

I thought you were going to be working late.

That’s what I tell all my women.

I wouldn’t doubt it. She had more of his drink. What have you been up to?

He was fiddling with a package of cigarettes. A variety of things.

Such as what? Another spat with Mr. Dave Short I suppose.

Sure. A dandy.

Then the waiter came with drinks, and when he was gone again, Gibson had a lighted match in his fingers, studying it closely. He held it until it burned his fingers. Then he glanced at Priscilla, and away, and picked up his glass.

Out with it, said Priscilla.

He didn’t look at her.

Give me a light for my cigarette, will you, said Priscilla. Still not looking at her, he lit the cigarette. You’re going to tell me sometime, she said. Why not now?

O.K. Then he was reaching into his pocket, and dropping the card in front of her.

She Picked it up slowly. She read it slowly. She read every word. Then she put it down and took a drag on her cigarette. She exhaled and crushed out the cigarette.

I thought you hated airplanes. Very matter of fact.

I do. As if that explained everything.

She picked up the card again and stared at it

Gibson waited Well? he said finally, and then at mm but still she didn’t say anything.

He had to say something. It’s a funny business. I’d always heard that when men went rushing off to the army, they were heroes. He paused to get her reaction, but she didn’t have any so he had to go on. I feel like a damn fool.

You are a damn fool.

That vaguely irritated him. Think so?

I do

Why?

Priscilla lit another cigarette before she answered. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve said that people had to be sensible and not be swept away by hysteria. You’ve sneered at the ambulance drivers rushing off to Africa and the fine society ladies bundling for Britain—

That’s right. They’re just playing at war. They get a long-distance tizzy out of it.

You’ve said—

Listen, Priscilla. I’ve said a lot of things that didn’t mean anything, and that I didn’t mean. I’ve put out as much guff as anybody. It makes me want to throw up when I think of all the smart things I’ve said. Anyway, all this talking and sitting around and waiting is beside the point.

What do you mean?

There’s a war on. Sooner or later, whether we want it or not, we’ll be in it.

That’s pretty pessimistic.

Is it? I just don’t know.

Suppose everybody thought that?

Gibson was silent for a minute. I’ll tell you something, he said finally. I’ll tell you why I think it’s inevitable. Because if we didn’t get in the war—if something suddenly happened to end it—it would be one hell of an anti-climax to one hell of a lot of people.

My God, Gib.

My God has nothing to do with it. I’m talking about people and the way they react. Especially people like myself. Priscilla shook her head. I don’t get it.

All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you something that will probably shock you. He looked at her with a queer half smile. Are you ready for it?

Priscilla merely nodded.

The whole bloody business of war fascinates me. And I don’t know anything about it. And I’m envious of the people who do. And I won’t come unfascinated until I’ve been through the works.

Couldn’t you find all that out being a war correspondent?

No. Vehement.

I should think it would be ideal.

I guess that’s what a lot of people think. Too many people. After a minute, he added, Correspondents are always on the outside looking in.

How else are people back home going to know what’s going on?

I’m not interested in the people back home. I’m only interested in myself.

Priscilla was staring at her pocketbook.

I guess we’d better have another drink. Gibson signaled the waiter, then turned back to her. Do you see what I’m driving at? Do you get it at all?

She wouldn’t look at him. Why airplanes? she asked. Why those damn things?

He laughed. Because I’m crazy, that’s all.

You always said you hated them. She was looking at him now, with tears in her eyes. Leave them alone. For God’s sake, Gib, leave them alone.

He took her hand and squeezed it. That’s all part of it Honey.

Part of what?

The reason I’m doing this at all. I figure if I’m going to be a damn fool, I might as well go whole hog.

She was still shaking her head.

I hate airplanes because I don’t know anything about them and they scare me, and——

You don’t like to be scared of anything. Is that it?

That’s it.

Priscilla tried to laugh. Do you plan to spend your life lighting the things that scare you?

Maybe. I hope not.

I hope not too.

Maybe when I’m older and wiser, I can do something constructive. Who knows?

That would be lovely. You could stop doing things the hard way.

And in the meantime, I want to be able to go to hell in my own way without taking anybody with me.

There’s nobody to stop you that I know of, said Priscilla, of Gibson downed his drink. ‘That brings up the subject

We don’t have to go into that, Gib.

I think we ought to.

Unh-unh. I’d rather not. She was firm about it I’ll tell you something, John Gibson. She was taking out another cigarette and waiting for him to light it.

He struck the match. Go ahead.

There was a time when I would have married you in two seconds flat The idea still appeals to me in a funny sort of way. See? She was saying each word carefully. But I know very well what goes on in your mind, John Gibson. In your weak moments, you think it would be a nice thing too, but then you get in one of your fine arrogant turns of mind and you’re damned if you want to marry and settle down and be responsible and make sense—just like other people. That would be too damn easy for you. Well, that’s your lookout but I’m staying clear. Get it.?

Gibson smiled. I get it.

So you don’t have to feel sorry for me or anything else Get it?

I get it.

 And if you ever do get to be a sane human being, and if you still want to marry me, then you can come around and ask me politely, and I’ll think about it. See?

Gibson was laughing. Yes, M’am.

And you can ask on your bended knees. Politely, on your bended knees.

I’ll remember.

You’d better not forget it. Priscilla settled back in her chair. I guess that fixes that.

You’re a humdinger. Gibson meant it.

You’re a louse. How about another drink?

Gibson signaled the waiter, and they were silent until he brought the glasses.

When are you going? asked Priscilla.

Friday.

That’s only three days from now.

"That’s right. I quit World this afternoon."

Priscilla sounded listless. Was it emotional?

Gibson had planned to make a fine funny story out of that interview. Now it didn’t seem fine or funny or important. He just said, Not very.

Priscilla let it go too. After a while, she asked, When are you leaving for the Adirondacks?

He was startled, and showed it.

That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it?

I’d sort of had the idea. And then, quite suddenly, he had another idea. An enchanting delightful diabolical idea that overwhelmed and confused him. Why not ask Priscilla to go with him?

He had to think about this.

He turned to Priscilla. Will you excuse me while I wash my face?

She nodded, smiling queerly. Don’t forget behind the ears.

In the washroom, the idea blossomed like a flower. Ask her to go. Ask her to marry him. Now. Right now. Cut out this idiotic idea of freedom, of flagellating himself, of—of—of—whatever the hell it was. Marry her while he had the chance.

He would. By God, he would.

He washed in a frenzy and hurried back.

Priscilla was gone, and there was a lipstick note under his glass. I think you were about to have a weak moment. Remember—on your tended knees, politely—you louse.

He sat down with a stunning sense of emptiness, and only slowly, very slowly, did it come to him that he had planned it this way.

And that this was the way it was going to be.

* * * * *

He was driving to the camp. The prospect of two days by himself had lost its fascination, but he was going anyway. He was going because he had planned it that way, and to back out now would be an admission of weakness. And he was afraid that if he stayed in New York he wouldn’t be able to stand it—sooner or later he’d get in touch with Priscilla.

You haven’t got the guts God gave a jelly bean. He said it out loud, to himself, but it didn’t help.

To escape from himself, he picked up a hitchhiker and drove him all the way to Albany. He was a bore, that hitchhiker—he talked about looking for a job in a war plant but all the war plants were run by Jews and he wasn’t going to work for those bastards, so now he was going home, broke. Gibson was glad to get rid of him, and to be alone again! and when he was out of Albany, he took a drink from the pint of Scotch, and then he drove very fast, not thinking of anything at all just cocooned in a grand melancholy awareness of isolation and mystery and detachment. The world was asleep, he was surging through, aloof from it, and there was just himself, and the speed, the deep whine of the tires, and the headlights that unveiled the darkness and passed it by.

Beyond Glens Falls, he was in the mountains, and there was a sharpness in the air. Quite suddenly, and without his knowing, a quiet excitement started brewing in him. Then a car passed, going south, with a buck deer strapped on the front fender, and in that instant of recognition, the excitement came to flood and burst.

By God, it was hunting season again, and he was close to camp, in a few hours he’d be there, and tomorrow he’d be in the woods with his rifle, and after that, nothing else mattered.

He. jammed down on the accelerator, and the car spurted ahead, and for a moment he sat there, intoxicated with excitement. Then, coming to his senses, he let up on the speed and settling back, had another drink from the bottle—a good drink for the pleasure of it—then he was planning his hunt for tomorrow.

In cold clear weather like this, the deer—the bucks anyway—would be on high ground. In the hardwoods. They’d be feeding on beechnuts in the early morning, then they’d go way the hell up somewhere to spend the day lying down. That was where they’d be all right. Unless they were rutting, of course. If they were rutting, they’d be ramming all over the woods, crazy as bulls, and you were apt to run into one anywhere.

He went over in his mind all the various places he might go tomorrow, but it was