Mixed Fiction

THE YELLER-HEADED SUMMER, by Francis Irby Gwaltney (207 pp.; Rinehart; $3), proves once again that a passel of li'l ole mental defectives can be pretty funny if they speak with a Southern drawl. Dim-witted Jack Winters, hero of this first novel, is constable of Walnut Creek, Ark., and a Bedder--which means that his folks were pore white trash who scratched out a living in a dry river bed. But Jack is proud of his gun and his badge; he loves to crank up the siren on the state police car, and his noblest ambition used to be to look like Tom Mix. The Good Families of Walnut Creek tolerate these goings-on as long as Jack remembers that there are two kinds of folks: those who make the laws and those who obey them. Then one hot dawn Jack finds the nymphomaniac daughter of a Good Family ice-picked to death. When Jack sets out to help track down the murderers, the yarn gets both confusing and gamy. What saves it is that Author Gwaltney has a foxy ear for cracker talk, a gift for deft characterization, and enough sense to let his characters do what comes naturally.

HESTER LILLY AND TWELVE SHORT STORIES, by Elizabeth Taylor (210 pp.; Viking; $3). In this collection--a novelette and a dozen short stories--British Novelist Elizabeth Taylor (A Wreath of Roses, The Sleeping Beauty) takes stock characters, and with hairline precision asserts a small but significant dissent from the stock notions of them. She disconcerts the common sentimental concept of blindness with the story of a rough, tough old horse dealer gone blind, who finds himself isolated and bewildered in a "home," where the matron refuses to read him the racing news. In the predictable tensions of the novelette--a middle-aged headmaster takes a teen-age cousin into his home, over the jealous opposition of his elegant, childless wife--Author Taylor finds unpredictable perceptions. The prose is studded with jeweled vignettes, e.g., the school matron: "As smooth as minnows were Mrs. Lancaster's phrases of welcome; she had soothed so many mothers, mothered so many boys. Her words swam all one way in unison, but her heart never moved." Several of the short stories are little more than finger exercises. But they are done by fingers as quick and sure as any in the business.

NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS, by Mac Hymen (214 pp.; Random House; $2.95), is the comic saga of how the U.S. Air Force grabs a Georgia cracker and learns it has bit off more than it can chew. Will Stockdale is not mean, but too dark an eight ball for even a general to stand behind. He is drafted after a pitched battle on Tobacco Road and in the barracks blows doleful music on his mouth harp to the tune Mother Ain't Dead, She's Only Sleeping. Will's perceptive sergeant appoints him permanent latrine orderly. On inspection day, the colonel almost jumps out of his uniform when Will jerks the wire he has rigged up and a long line of latrine seats comes clattering to attention. Soon Will joins a bomber crew that is almost equal to him. The pilot, who once flew planes "that didn't have but one little bitty engine," becomes incensed when told two of his engines need fixing. "What do you mean, it's in no condition to fly!" he screams. "Don't you have any guts?" Will manages to get into the extraordinary jam of being awarded two medals posthumously ("We had give our lives for our country, which was about as far beyond the call of duty as you could get") while he is still alive. Will tells his own story, drawl and all, and is very funny telling it.

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