Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  He found First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, sitting on a cot, holding his shirt on his lap. He was bare-chested except for the adhesive tape wrapped around his upper torso, his head was wrapped in bandages; the parts of his face that were visible looked like someone had beaten him with a baseball bat; and his neck and shoulders were decorated with a dozen small bandages.

  What did that idiot say? "He's not so bad off"? What's bad off, then?

  "Hello, Jim," Galloway said. "I'd ask how you are, except that I'm afraid you'd tell me." Ward, startled, jumped to his feet.

  "My God, am I glad to see you!"

  "Yeah, me too," Galloway said.

  He was fond of Jim Ward for many reasons... and not just because Jim Ward was responsible for his initial meeting with Mrs. Carolyn Ward McNamara, who was Jim's aunt. Carolyn's last letter to Galloway was signed, "all of my love, my darling, always, to the end of time. " And Galloway felt pretty much the same about her.

  "These idiots want to evacuate me!" Ward said indignantly, gesturing toward a group of medical personnel at the far end of the fly tent.

  "Really? I wonder why?"

  "All I've got is some busted ribs."

  "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

  "I took some shards from the windscreen," Ward protested.

  "And I guess I banged my face against the canopy rails or something. But the bandages and the swelling will be gone in a week." He saw the look on Galloway's face and added indignantly, "Go ask them if you don't believe me."

  "Where's Schneider? More importantly, how is Schneider?" First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, a graduate of the Naval Academy and the nephew of an admiral, had only one redeeming feature, in Galloway's judgment. The arrogant, self-important little shit had a natural ability to fly airplanes.

  "He's in pretty bad shape," Jim Ward said. "He broke his ankle. I mean bad. And he took a bullet and some shrapnel in his leg. They've been keeping him pretty well doped up." He pointed to a cot at the far end of the fly tent near where the medical personnel were gathered.

  "You stay here," Galloway ordered. "I'll ask why you're being evacuated."

  "I can fly now, for Christ's sake."

  "Yeah, sure you can," Galloway said.

  He walked to the foot of Schneider's cot. Schneider's face looked wan, and his eyes, though open, seemed to be not quite focused on the canvas overhead. A cast covered his foot and his left leg nearly up to his knee; and his upper right leg was covered with a bandage from his knee to his crotch. Like Ward, he was peppered with small bandages.

  "Hey, Dave, you awake?" Galloway called softly.

  Schneider's eyes finally focused on Galloway and recognition came. He smiled and started to push himself up on the cot.

  "We heard you were alive, Sir. I'm delighted."

  "What happened to you?"

  "I took some hits in the leg, Sir. And as I was landing, I found that I was unable to operate the right rudder pedal. I went off the runway and hit a truck, Sir."

  "How's the truck?" Galloway asked jokingly.

  "I understand it was one of the trucks the Japanese rendered inoperable, Sir," Schneider said, seriously.

  "I regret that I totaled the aircraft, Sir."

  "Well, by the time you get back, we'll have a new one for you."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Anything I can do you, Dave?"

  "No, Sir. But thank you very much."

  "I just came from Espiritu Santo, Dave. What they'll probably do is keep you there no more than a day and then fly you to the new Army General Hospital in Melbourne."

  "Not to a Navy hospital, Sir?" Schneider asked, disappointed.

  Galloway knew the reason for Schneider's disappointment: Ensign Mary Agnes O'Malley, NNC, might not be serving at the hospital where he was assigned. Mary Agnes O'Malley was a sexual engine who ran most of the time over the red line, and in recent times she liked having Schneider's hands on her throttle.

  Jesus, as doped up as he is, he's still thinking about Mary Agnes, hoping she'll be there to nurse him in a way not ordinarily provided. Sorry, Dave, even if you go to a Navy hospital, and Mary Agnes was there with her libido in supercharge, it'll be some time before you'll be bouncing around on the sheets again.

  "Hey, Dave," Galloway said. "Hospitals are hospitals."

  "Yes, Sir." A small-boned little man in utilities walked up to the cot, swabbed at Schneider's arm with a cotton ball, and then gave him an injection. At first Galloway thought he was a Navy corpsman, but then he saw a gold oak leaf on the little man's collar. He was a lieutenant commander.

  He was not wearing a Red Cross brassard, Galloway noticed, and there was a web belt with a Colt.45

  automatic pistol in its holster dangling from it.

  He looked at Galloway coldly and walked away. When Galloway looked down at Schneider again, his eyes were closed.

  Galloway walked after the doctor.

  "Got a minute, Doctor?" The little man turned and again looked coldly at Galloway.

  "Certainly I have a minute. Obviously there is very little for me to do around here. What's on your mind?"

  "Lieutenant Ward, over there," Galloway said, jerking his thumb toward Ward, "doesn't think he really has to be evacuated."

  "What are you, his priest or something?"

  "I told him I would ask, Commander," Galloway replied.

  "OK. He has broken ribs. He can't fly with broken ribs, OK?

  His nose is broken, OK? And there is a good chance he has some bone damage in that area. We won't know until we can get a good EN&T guy to take a good look at him, OK? In addition to that, he has a number of small penetrating wounds, each of which, in this fucking filthy humid environment, is likely to get infected, OK? So I made a decision, Chaplain: Either I let this guy hang around here, and not only get sicker, OK? And take up bed space I'm going to need soon, OK? And eat rations, which we don't have enough of as it is, OK? Or I could evacuate him, OK? I decided to evacuate him. OK?"

  "OK," Galloway said. "Sorry to bother you."

  "I don't know how long you've been around here, Chaplain," the doctor said. "But you better understand that these pilots are all crazy. For example, I just got word that a lunatic in the hospital on Espiritu Santo went AWOL to come back here. The son of a bitch was suffering from exposure and dehydration after he got shot down and floated around in the goddamned ocean for eighteen hours."

  "You don't say?"

  "Anything else on your mind, Chaplain?"

  "No, thank you very much, Doctor." The doctor turned and walked away. Galloway went back to Jim Ward.

  "What did he say, Skipper?"

  "He said get on the airplane, Mr. Ward. He said unless you do, your wang will turn black and fall off."

  "Come on, I can fly."

  "Have a good time in Australia, Jim," Galloway said.

  "Oh, shit!" Jim Ward said, resigned to his fate.

  When Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, wearing a sweat-soaked tropical areas flight suit and a.45 automatic in a shoulder holster, raised his eyes from his desk, he saw Captain Charles M.

  Galloway, USMCR, standing at the entrance to his tent. Though Dawkins looked hot and hassled, his voice was conversational, even cordial, when he spoke:

  "Please come in and have a seat, Captain Galloway, I'll be with you in just a moment."

  "Thank you, Sir," Galloway said.

  Galloway was worried. He had served under Dawkins for a long time, and he knew Dawkins: When he was really pissed, he really lowered the boom, he assumed the manner of a friendly uncle.

  A full two minutes later, Dawkins looked at him.

  "I must confess a certain degree of surprise, Captain Galloway. From the description of your physical condition and mental attitude furnished by the medics on Espiritu Santo, I expected a pathetic physical wreck, eyes blazing with a maniacal conviction that the entire war will be lost unless he is there to fight it himself."

  "Sir, I'm all right. All I was doing was
sitting around reading three-month-old copies of the Saturday Evening Post. "

  "In case this has not yet come to your attention, Captain, the Naval Service, in its wisdom, has certain designated specialists, called doctors, who determine if people are fit, or not fit, to return to duty. What makes you think your judgment is superior to theirs?" Galloway opened his mouth to reply, but Dawkins went on before he could. "How the hell did you get back here, anyway?"

  "I caught a ride, Sir."

  "And did you really think you could get away with just getting on a plane and coming back here?"

  Galloway made no reply.

  "They want you court-martialed for breaking into some supply room. What the hell is that all about?

  What did you steal, anyway?" Galloway waved his hand, indicating his uniform.

  "They wouldn't give me my uniform back, Sir." Dawkins glowered at him for a full thirty seconds, and then said, "If I wasn't so glad to see you, you sonofabitch, I'd personally kick your ass all over this airfield, and then send you back there in irons."

  "I thought I should be here, Sir," Galloway said.

  "Are you really all right, Charley?"

  "I looked like a corpse when they fished me out of the water, and I never want to get that thirsty again, but yes Sir, I'm all right."

  "What do you mean, you looked like a corpse?"

  "My skin was all puckered up."

  "You realize how lucky you were?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Jiggs and Hawthorne weren't lucky," Dawkins said.

  "Yes, Sir, Oblensky told me."

  "And you know about Ward and Schneider?"

  "Yes, Sir. I just saw them. Ward's unhappy about being evacuated."

  "Well, following the sterling example of his squadron commander, he'll probably go AWOL and come right back."

  "I didn't have the chance to ask Big Steve about aircraft," Galloway said, hoping to change the subject.

  "You have eight left. Christ only knows when we'll get more.

  I think the Air Corps is down to about six of their P-400s. Have you seen Dunn?"

  "No, Sir. I came right here."

  "He is now officially an ace. I put him in for a DSC," a Distinguished Service Cross. "They bumped it down to a DFC," a Distinguished Flying Cross.

  "You should have known they would," Galloway said.

  Dawkins nodded. "That's why I put him in for the DSC. If I'd have put him in for a DFC, they would have bumped it down to a Good Conduct Medal." Galloway chuckled.

  "You're credited with three and a half," Dawkins said.

  "Anything unusual I should know?" Dawkins shook his head.

  "Same drill. We generally get thirty minutes' notice from the Coastwatcher people, via either Pearl Harbor or Townsville.

  That gives us enough time to get off the ground and to altitude.

  By then the radar can usually give us a vector. We shoot them down or they shoot us down. That will go on until one side or the other runs out of airplanes. Right now, unless we get some help from the Navy, that looks like us."

  "There was a bunch of F4F pilots on Espiritu. Right out of Pensacola." "That's academic. We don't have airplanes for them to fly." Their eyes met for a moment, and then Galloway said, "I suppose I better go see Dunn and let him know I'm back." As the next senior officer present for duty, First Lieutenant William Charles Dunn, USMCR, assumed command of VMF229 after Galloway was shot down and presumed dead. Bill Dunn was twenty-one years old; he stood five feet six, weighed no more than 135

  pounds, and looked to Dawkins like a college cheerleader. He became an ace the day he took over VMF-229.

  Dawkins nodded, and then stood up and offered his hand.

  "I'm glad you came through, Charley. God knows how, but I'll deal with the people you've pissed off."

  "Thank you, Sir." Galloway had gone no farther than two hundred yards from Dawkins' tent when a siren began to wail. He looked at the control tower. A black flag-signifying air base under attack was being hoisted on the flagpole.

  He started to trot toward the area where the aircraft of VMF-229 were parked in sandbagged revetments. Then, realizing that he really had no reason to rush to his airplane, he slowed to a walk: The F4F with CAPT C. GALLOWAY USMCR painted below the canopy track was now at the bottom of the sea.

  Soon he heard the peculiar sound of Wildcat engines starting, and then the different sound of R4D

  engines being run up to takeoff power. He looked down the runway in time to see the R4D he'd flown in to Guadalcanal begin its takeoff roll. A moment later it flashed over his head.

  No more than sixty seconds later, the first F4F with MARINES painted on its fuselage bounced down the runway and staggered into the air, followed almost immediately by half a dozen others.

  From his position, he could not see into their cockpits and identify their pilots.

  He kept walking toward the squadron area.

  The next time the Japanese come, I will bump one of my eager young lieutenants out of his seat. Will I be doing that because I really think that a squadron commander's place is in the air with his men? Or was that doctor on Espiritu right, that anyone who does such things when he hasn't been ordered to is by definitional out of his mind?

  Chapter Two

  [One]

  U.S. MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT

  PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

  31 AUGUST 1942

  Prior to his enlistment in The Marine Corps, George F. Hart, USMCR, was employed by the Saint Louis, Missouri, Police Department. Specifically, the twenty-four-year-old fifth son and eighth child of Captain (of the Saint Louis police) and Mrs. Karl J. Hart was the youngest (ever) detective on that organization I s Vice Squad. Law enforcement was something of a family tradition.

  After immigrating to the United States from Silesia, George's paternal grandfather, Anton Hartzberger, joined the force a month after he became an American citizen. He retired as a sergeant.

  Two of Anton's sons, George's father and his Uncle Fred (legally Friedrich), went on the cops, as did two of George's brothers and a pair of cousins. Uncle Fred was a harness bull sergeant and happy to be where he was... though he thought it would be nice if he made lieutenant later, because of the pension.

  George's father, Karl, was promoted to Captain shortly after he was placed in charge of the Homicide Bureau; and he had ambitions for higher rank. But he believed his ambitions were damaged all along by the perception that he was one more stupid Kraut-of which, it must be admitted, the Saint Louis police had a more than adequate supply.

  When Georg Friedrich Hartzberger was in the eighth grade, Sergeant Karl Hartzberger took his wife and his children to a judge's chambers. They emerged the Hart family, with all their given names Anglicized.

  After he graduated from high school, George found employment as a truck driver's helper for a well-known Saint Louis brewery-despite misgivings that he wasn't big or strong enough to handle it.

  Legally, he should have been over twenty-one before taking employment in the alcohol industry. But that provision of law was enforced by the police department, none of whose members saw reason to inquire just how old Captain Hart's kid was.

  And so for close to three years, he manhandled beer kegs and cases of bottled beer from loading dock to truck, and from truck to saloon or store basements, or to wherever those in the business of slaking the thirst of their fellow citizens chose to keep their supplies of brew.

  George Hart was sworn in as a police officer when he was twenty-one. By then the regimen of beer-keg tossing had given him a remarkable musculature. While he wasn't built like et circus strongman-as many of his coworkers were-he was extraordinarily strong. For example, he could (and often did, when sampling his employer's wares) cause an unopened beer can to explode by crushing it in his hand.

  He had also been inside just about every hotel, motel, restaurant, tavern, bar and grill, saloon, and whorehouse in both Saint Louis and East Saint Louis, its neighbor across the river in Illino
is.

  The usual period of rookie training-riding around with an experienced officer so as to become familiar with the city and with police procedures-was very short for Officer Hart. He already knew the city, and there wasn't much about the police department that he hadn't already learned before he joined the cops.

  Afterward, he was assigned as a plain-clothes officer to the Vice Squad. The mission of the Vice Squad was the suppression of gambling, prostitution, narcotics, and crimes against nature.

  As a practical matter, as long as the girls in the houses behaved themselves (which meant they didn't roll their clientele or sell them narcotics), the whorehouses were left pretty much alone.

  Nor did the police get very excited about a bunch of guys sitting around playing poker or shooting crap.

  For the most part that left the drug dealers, the fairies, and the pimps especially black pimps who preyed on young women, especially really young, fourteen-, fifteen-year-old white country girls who came to Saint Louis seeking fame and fortune. And also, for obvious reasons, the Squad came down hard on badger operations: A guy takes a girl to a hotel room expecting to get a five-dollar piece of ass; instead he finds some guy waving a badge at him, saying he's a cop, and wanting twenty bucks not to run him in and cause him severe public humiliation. And then there were the fucking unwashed hillbillies who came to Saint Louis to find a job, found that a job meant work, and decided it was easier to rent out their fourteen-year-old daughters to make their moonshine money.

  These guys really offended Officer George Hart's sense of decency.

  Hart had been working plain-clothes Vice about six months when he was awarded his first citation. He was in a bar down by the river, just nosing around, when two guys stuck it up.

  One of them had a.38 Smith & Wesson Military and Police, the other one had a.22 Colt Woodsman.

  Hart wasn't going to do anything about it except remember what they looked like, but a uniform walked in off the street and tried to be a hero. When the robbers shot him, there was nothing Hart could do but shoot the robbers. He killed one; the other would be paralyzed for the rest of his life.