Near the fringes of the Everglades, where Army engineers have ripped pines from the white sand and replaced them with unlovely cantonment buildings, a column of bronzed troops swung crisply from a company street. A band fell in at the head of the column, flashed back the bright Florida sun from its burnished instruments as it thumped the Army Air Corps march. Its song rose and fell against a discordant background: the muffled thud of shotguns, the crisp crack of .30-caliber machine guns, the sulky bark of .50s.
It was graduation day at the Air Forces Flexible Gunnery School at...
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