But it was only an impersonation. The Texan’s engine put out half the horsepower of a Wildcat’s. Its top speed was only about two-thirds of the Navy fighter’s. That that all made it much more forgiving than the genuine article was only a detail to Joe.

Groundcrew men came out to detach the plane’s tailhook from the wire and get it out of the way so another cadet could land on the yellow-outlined “carrier deck.” Lieutenant Foster said, “How soon do you think you’ll be ready to solo in a Texan?”

Joe blinked. He hadn’t expected that question from Foster, especially not after the instructor reamed out his navigation. But it had only one possible answer: “Sir, I’m ready to take a swing at it right this minute if you want me to.”

Foster had blond hair, a lock of which kept falling down on his forehead, and an aw-shucks smile that probably put the girls in mind of Gary Cooper. It put skinny, swarthy Joe Crosetti in mind of the Nob Hill nobs who looked down their straight noses at dagos like him. But the officer didn’t give him a hard time because of his last name or his looks. Foster said, “I approve of your spirit, Mr. Crosetti. The Navy needs more men who don’t hesitate. But if the flesh doesn’t quite measure up to it, you’re better off waiting, and the country would be better off if you did, too.” Joe must have looked stubborn, or maybe angry, because the flying instructor sighed and went on, “How many memorial services have you attended since you got here?”

“Uh, a few, sir,” Joe admitted. He’d been to more than a few, and he was sure Wiley Foster knew it. As soon as cadets started getting up into the air, they started finding ways to kill themselves.