Synopsis: The conclusion of The Distilling War - Jenson gets drunk, meets a like-minded pilot, and finds his true calling
*** Continued from Pt. 1 ***
Jenson looked. He squinted in the gloom of the cockpit and noticed the small black device that normally wasn't there. It was rectangular. Slightly taller and wider than a pint of beer and it extended about two feet forward of the cockpit. Jenson's eyes bulged as they tracked to the ornately styled "W" at the corner. "A Wallsley!" he exclaimed. "In my Shrike!"
"Yes. And if you reach behind the seat, you'll find a cooler full of chilled, pint glasses."
He reached behind and opened the cooler. His hand formed perfectly, as though it were genetically designed to, over the shape of a frosted pint glass. A wisp of a tear formed in his eye as he held the glass before him. "It can't be," he muttered.
"It's true," said Bob. "In fact, the still has been working during our flight. I believe it's ready and a celebratory libation is in order."
"I couldn't." Jenson set his mouth firmly. "No drinking during a combat flight. You know the rules."
"Oh, just a taste."
"No."
"A tiny sample"
"No."
"A mere nip."
"No! And that's that!"
"Oh, I suppose you're right." Bob's Avatar looked disdainful. "It's only 'Jenson's Bloody Bastard IPA.' How good could it..."
"Bloody Bastard?!"
"I am not! How dare you call me..."
"You couldn't possibly have made the 'Bloody Bastard'! That recipe's entirely proprietary. Nobody outside the family..."
"Your father sent it to me."
"Oh!" Jenson's face went blank. Remembering the flavor of finely crafted ale, saliva pooled in his mouth. His hand clutched the frosted glass in a grip of euphoria. The memory of his first drink of 'Bloody Bastard' congealed in his mind. The smell of the wood of the bar. The flush of friendship and camaraderie. The sweet fragrance of the pint before him. The taste, oh the taste! Sweet, yet gently bitter. A rich woody patina ensconcing the suggestion of plum with a hint of nutmeg swirling in his mouth. Oh, angels should bathe in it's sweet embrace! The Gods would surely dance with it upon Olympus. Feast with it in Valhalla! The very blood of warriors at Ragnarok would...
"...Jenson...Oh Jenson!"
"Eh? What?"
"I'll just eject the Bloody Bastard now, yes?"
"Who are you calling a...uh...that is, let's not be too hasty now."
Bob's avatar pursed it's lips. "Well, you did rightly point out the regulations restricting drinking during a combat flight."
"Uh...yes, of course, I did. Certainly you understand I was merely testing your resolve to stick to the book. Where merited of course."
Bob stroked it's chin thoughtfully. "So you are saying..."
Jenson fidgeted. "Well this fine drink would be a tremendous boon to my...I...mean...the moral of the lads, of course. A bit of this, at the base during off hours might be helpful. But it is important to be sure the product is worthy of the family brew."
"So you think we should...eh, what are you doing?"
Jenson looked up from loading a frosted pint in the Wallsley. "I can't have you blundering about with brewing 'Bloody Bastard'. You might spoil it's good name!"
Bob raised an eyebrow.
Jenson grinned gleefully, eyes fixated on the Wallsley. The machine chugged and burbled. "Won't be long now." He began tapping his fingertips together as he watched the blinking green light."
"I'm afraid we'll have to put off the tasting just now," announced Bob, stroking it's mustache absently. "We are now over the combat zone. You need your reflexes."
"Oh, just a taste!"
"Sorry. No."
"Just a nip?"
"No!"
"We'll land first."
"Okay."
Shrike Mk VIIs possessed limited VTOL ability. But vertical landing or takeoff consumed a lot of fuel and therefore was intended only for emergencies. In Jenson's mind, an opportunity to sample his first 'good beer' in a year constituted a desperate emergency.
Not being designed to fly slow very well, the Shrike wobbled a lot and was difficult to control. Jenson finally put the machine down safely in a narrow canyon where shadows would make spotting it very difficult. Especially with it's smart-skin, coloring it in an exacting pattern to match the terrain.
Ten minutes later, Jenson looked mournfully at the last few drops of 'Bloody Bastard' swishing languidly at the bottom of the pint. Bob had indeed performed well in brewing his family's recipe. The happy smells of wooden caskes, yeast, and hops danced in his mind. He recalled the happy times of drinking after a long work day with the master brewers; the camaraderie of crafters working in an art eons old; skulking behind the ancient oak with Margaret Withers, whose plump, ripe 'withers' glowed so beautifully in the moonlight. Ah! He wanted more. He wanted...no, 'needed' to bask in the bliss a little more; let the coarse, hardened skin of war slough off to reveal the real Johnny Jenson he'd almost forgotten. He smiled wanly. Then a glint shined in his eye. "I think I drank that too fast, Bob. I need more time to consider the balance. Let's have another."
Twenty minutes later, "The balance is slighty off, Bob. A little more bitter if you please."
Thirty minutes later, "Well, that was goob. Ease up on the butpeg...ah...nutmeg. Good alchohol level, though."
Three pints later, Jenson felt very warm and happy. The memory of one of Margaret's other fine qualities danced on his tongue. His hand probed for his pint, missing it several times, before a squalling of scraping metal yanked him out of his reverie. The Shrike rocked violently, hurling the pint painfully into his nose.
Cursing fouly, angered that his beer had been spilled, Jenson threw back the canopy and stood up in the cockpit and looked for the cause. Engines still steaming from cool-down, an enemy fighter sat next to his. It's wing draped over the Shrike's wing. Scrape marks showed where the Mirsk fighter barely missed crushing the wing. The canopy of the enemy fighter swooshed open and it's pilot stood up in the cockpit to face him.
In the tense seconds that followed, with Jenson's hand close to his sidearm and swaying only slightly, he did the only thing that seemed appropriate. "Gob-ramit, you Brasshole!" he shouted. "Doncha' know how ta' park?!"
Like many in the EEU, the enemy pilot's English was fairly good. He shouted back, "I park good you farkin' Limey! You prick...ah...you pick...You parked in my spot!"
"Don' matter ya' idiot. Ya didn't hafta' spit...eh...hit me!"
"You haff smar-skin on, Bolt...Dolt! You ver indivisible!"
Jenson put his hands on hips and leaned forward like he was speaking to a foolish child. "I'm s'posed too, bunny!"
"Dummy," prompted the squat, squarely-built pilot.
Jenson pointed. "Yeah, that! C'mere so I can pick...kick yer ass!"
"Oh my ass ain' one gonna be sticked...kicked," countered the EEU pilot. He climbed out of the cockpit and onto the wing of his plane. His foot stabbed and missed several times at the footstep below the plane's fuselage. He missed several more times before over-balancing and tumbling to the ground. He rolled, groaning pitifully in the dirt, before he came to a stop face up, just below Jenson's cockpit.
"You're drunk!" pronounced Jenson, gazing at the chiseled features of the pilot. He was clean-shaven with sun-browned skin.
"So," groaned the EEU pilot. "You're poo. Flu...uh...also."
"Oh yeah? Well I got a 'reason'."
"Like?"
"Like, my computer's ssoooo smarf, it got a fill...a pill...uh..."
The EEU pilot sat bolt upright. "A Still?"
"Yeah, that's it. An' it made some great beer."
"And mine eez making vodka! What kind beer yours make?"
"'Bloody Bastard'!"
"Limey!"
"Nah, nah, not YOU! The beer! It's 'Bloody Bastard'!"
"Is good?"
A couple hours later, the two were lounging side-by-side on the wing of the Shrike. Full and half full glasses of Bloody Bastard and Flyy vodka sat around them like offerings to Dionysis. They were laughing heartily at a joke best not shared in mixed company. Jenson clanked his glass of Flyy vodka to Graminov's pint of Bloody Bastard. "You know, I love you, man!"
"So give me kiss, then Jenson!" The two laughed uproariously at this. "You are good friend, Jenson," said Graminov, holding up his pint. "Too bad I must kill you later."
"Yeah, me too," sighed Jenson. But then a thought came to his mind. He looked up and scratched at his cheek. "You know, it's been tough finding you guys lately."
"Is same problem for us, yes."
"Well, what if I didn't find you today?"
Graminov smirked at Jenson. "Already, I know I not find you. We are friends today. Besides, I am too drunk to fight!"
"Yeah, me too. But what about tomorrow? Maybe we could 'not find' each other in this very spot tomorrow?"
"You are serious?" He smiled at Jenson's affirmative nod. "Is good plan. But we are soldiers. One day we must try kill each other again."
Jenson took a sip of vodka then gestured with it. "Let's worry about that the 'day after' tomorrow."
"Okay," replied Graminov. He drank again from his pint and rolled his eyes pleasurably. He grinned suggestively at Jenson. "Maybe 'week after' next is better?"
***
The war pressed on. No new combat zones were won on either side. Yet strangely, pilot morale reached an all-time high. The commanding generals in the WEU believed morale increased partly because of the squadron's renaming themselves, thus creating a new identity. The first renamed squadron became the 'Bloody Bastards'. The next was the 'Hoppy Lads', followed by the 'Racer 9s' and the 'Indian Pale As'.
But no amount of good morale produced good enough results for either side. The war ground on for another year. The economy for both sides ground to a virtual halt. Only the production of Hops (used in the production of beer) in the WEU and the production of potatoes (strangely not appearing on dinner tables) in the EEU kept either economy going. Most supplies of any kind were scarce since the war effort demanded all of it.
The problem came to a head when the prime minister of the WEU visited his isolated retreat in Wales, only to discover that all the wooden furniture had been removed and burned for firewood.
That was the last straw - or table leg - that broke the war's back. Within two weeks, diplomats from both sides met and signed a peace treaty. The war was over.
***
"I guess this is the last one I'll drink to you, eh?" said Smeery as he quaffed his richly made Stout Ale.
Jenson sipped thoughtfully. His tastebuds basked happily in the full, cherry flavor of his own expertly-made Lambic Ale. "No, Smeery. I think I'll be staying on."
Smeery spluttered in his beer. "You said before you wanted to go back home!"
Jenson just smiled knowingly. "I know I did. But I've realized there's so much good I can do here!"