He knew most of all that he wanted to go home — that there was something at home he had to get, and he didn’t even know what it was. During the long, hard training, there had not been time to think of himself nor to want anything.
The ceremony at the end was unreal. He stood with sixteen others — all of them rigid as cypress logs, and the silver wings were pinned to his blouse over his heart. There was a speech by the Colonel, and half of his mind heard it… the other half was going home.
He walked to his Model-A Ford, got in, and slammed the door.
From the corners of his eyes, he could see the gold bars on his shoulders. The silver wings were heavy over his heart.
He started the clattering open roadster, listened for a moment to the slapping pistons, and drove away in the sunny golden afternoon. The front wheels waggled loosely, and he let the steering wheel slip back and forth in his hands.
A training plane flew over and banked. He glanced up and knew that the pilot was not going home. Now he was frightened of his success. He tilted his cap a little and sat very straight behind the wheels.
And then he turned off the highway and into the rutted lane. The meadow lark flew ahead from fence post to fence post, singing his coming like a herald. The young cotton was strong and dark and clean in the fields.
The porches of the cottage were crowded as he drove by… Children washed and dressed in their best and starchiest clothes… hair bursting with ribbons… and the older people standing behind on the porches.
At each house, they watched him pass, and then the families walked solemnly down the steps into the lane and followed him like people going to church… Men and women and children in their best clothes.
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