Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  The basic rule was that officers got saluted by enlisted men. But it wasn’t quite that simple. You were not supposed to salute indoors unless you were under arms. That meant actually carrying your rifle, or a symbol of it like a cartridge belt. And you were not supposed to salute when you were on a labor detail. The NCO in charge of the labor detail was supposed to do that, first calling “attention” and then saluting the officer on behalf of the entire labor detail.

  I suppose, PFC Hastings finally decided, that since I am the only one on this labor detail, I am in charge, and supposed to salute. And that sonofabitch obviously isn’t going to go away. He’s looking at the car like he never saw a ‘33 Ford before.

  And I don’t think anybody ever got in real trouble in the Corps for saluting when they really didn’t have to.

  He gave the chrome V-8 insignia on the front of the hood a final wipe, stepped back a foot; and then, as if he had first noticed the officer just then, he popped to attention and saluted.

  “Good afternoon, Sir!” PFC Hastings barked. At the same moment, he realized that coming to attention had rearranged his hips so that the bottom of his coveralls was sliding down off them.

  “Good afternoon,” Captain Charley Galloway said, crisply returning the salute and doing his best not to laugh. “Stand at ease and grab your pants.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  PFC Hastings quickly untied the sleeves of his coveralls, shoved his arms through them, and buttoned the garment as regulations required. When he looked up, he saw that the Captain was carefully inspecting the Ford’s interior. He took a chance.

  “Nice car, isn’t it, Sir?”

  “Yes, it is,” Galloway said, smiling at PFC Hastings. “And Sergeant Oblensky lets you take care of it for him, does he?”

  “Yes, Sir,” PFC Hastings said, a touch of pride in his voice. “I try to keep it shipshape for him, Sir.”

  “And you seem to have done so very well,” Galloway said.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Do you happen to know where Sergeant Oblensky is?”

  “Yes, Sir. He’s inside, in the hangar, I mean.”

  “Would you please find Sergeant Oblensky and tell him I’d like a word with him, please?”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Hastings said, and started to walk away, then stopped. He had forgotten to salute; and he also hadn’t done what Sergeant Oblensky had told him to do with the car when he had finished washing it.

  “Sir, I’m supposed to put the car back in Sergeant Oblensky’s parking space.”

  “It’ll be all right here,” Galloway said. “Just go get him, please.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Hastings said, and this time remembered to salute.

  Galloway, fighting the urge to smile, returned it; and then when the kid had disappeared, at a fast trot, around the corner of the hangar, he leaned over the mounted-in-the-front-fender spare tire and raised the left half of the hood.

  The engine compartment of the nine-year-old Ford was as spotless as the exterior. The first time Charley had seen the Ford’s engine it was a disaster; where it wasn’t streaked with rust it had been coated with grease. Now it looked as good as it must have looked on the showroom floor. Better. And mechanically it was better too. The engine had not just been completely rebuilt, it had been greatly modified. The heads had been milled to increase compression. The carburetor had been upgraded. There had even been thought about “blowing” the engine, getting an aircraft engine supercharger from salvage, rebuilding it, and adapting it to the flathead Ford V-8. That probably would have happened had the war not come along.

  Captain Galloway lowered the hood, fastened it in place, and stood erect. Technical Sergeant Stefan Oblensky appeared at the corner of the hangar.

  He was known as “Big Steve” because he was big. He stood well over six feet, had a barrel chest, and large bones. He was almost entirely bald, and what little hair remained around his ears and the back of his neck was so closely shorn as to be nearly invisible.

  He was forty-six, literally old enough to be Charley’s father. Seeing him, Charley realized with surprise that he had forgotten both how old and how big Big Steve was. And how formidable appearing in his stiffly starched, skin-tight khakis, his fore-and-aft cap perched on his shining, massive head.

  There was no suggestion on his face that he had ever seen Captain Charles Galloway before in his life. He raised his hand in a crisp salute.

  “Good afternoon, Sir. The captain wished to see me?”

  Charley returned the salute.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said. “Yes, I did.”

  “How may I help the captain, Sir?”

  “I think we might as well start by putting this back in my name,” Galloway said, waving at the Ford. “Does it run as good as it looks?”

  “I don’t think the captain will have any complaints, Sir.”

  “Well, then get in, Sergeant, and we’ll go see the Provost Marshal.”

  “Sir, with the captain’s permission, I’ll have to inform the maintenance officer that I will be out of the hangar.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Sergeant. I’ve explained to your squadron commander that we have some business to take care of.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  That’s bullshit.

  What I did, with absolutely no success, was try to placate his squadron commander after he had been told five minutes before that he had just lost his Maintenance NCO to VMF-229, and that the decision was not open for discussion or reversal. When I walked out of his door, the man was still steamingly pissed off—not only at his Wing Commander but, if possible, even more at Captain Charles M. Galloway, CO, VMF-229. I wonder why I didn’t tell Big Steve that he now works for me?

  Obviously, because I don’t want him to think that Santa Claus has come to town, and that he now has a squadron commander in his pocket.

  Galloway got behind the wheel of the Ford. Oblensky, after first removing it from a well-filled key ring, handed the ignition key to him.

  The engine started immediately. Galloway slipped it in gear and made a U-turn away from the hangar.

  “I heard you were back,” Oblensky said.

  It starts. “You,” not “the captain. ” No “Sir.”

  “I got in yesterday,” Galloway said. “I got a ride on an Army Air Corps B-17.”

  “Do they give them guns and ammo now?” Oblensky asked.

  Again, no “Sir,” Galloway thought. What the hell is he talking about?

  And then he remembered. During the attack on Pearl Harbor, a flight of B-17s had arrived in Hawaii. Since they had left the United States in peacetime—and to decrease the parasitic drag the weapons would cause if in place—their .50 caliber Browning machine guns had been stowed inside, and they had carried no ammunition for them. They had arrived in the middle of a battle absolutely unable to defend themselves.

  “These had ammo,” Galloway answered, remembering. “The side positions were faired over, and their guns were on the deck. The turrets were operational.”

  “I heard they were giving you a squadron.”

  Of course you did. If you could find out from the Navy the course of the Saratoga at sea, it was no problem at all for you to find out from the sergeant in Colonel Dawkins’s office that I was going to get VMF-229.

  “VMF-229,” Galloway said.

  It was not far from the hangar to the Provost Marshal’s office. Oblensky did not attempt further conversation.

  There was a lanky buck sergeant on duty. He stood up behind his desk when Galloway walked into the small frame building.

  “Good morning, Sir,” the sergeant said. “Can I help you?”

  “I want to register a car,” Galloway said. “You got the papers, Sergeant Oblensky?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Oblensky said, taking the vehicle registrations, military and civilian, from his wallet and handing them over.

  “Sir,” the Provost Marshal Sergeant said, “if the captain is buying the c
ar from the sergeant, you’ll need a notarized bill of sale.”

  “I’m not buying it,” Galloway said. “I already own it. I gave Sergeant Oblensky a power-of-attorney to use it when I went to the States.”

  “It’s on file,” Oblensky said. “Look under ‘Oblensky.’ ”

  “Let me check,” the sergeant said, and he went to a vertical file cabinet. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. He returned with a manila folder, reading from it as he walked.

  “You’re Tech Sergeant Galloway, Sir?”

  “No. I’m Captain Galloway. But I was a Tech Sergeant when I signed that power-of-attorney.”

  “Yes, Sir. That’s what I meant, Sir. I’ll get the forms, Sir.”

  He went into a small storeroom.

  “I think he knows who you are,” Oblensky said, softly.

  “Who am I?”

  “I mean, I think he knows what happened, who you are,” Oblensky said.

  The sergeant came out of the storeroom with several printed forms and a small metal plate. He sat down at the typewriter and fed the forms into it. He asked for Galloway’s serial number and unit.

  “There’s a new regulation, Sir,” the sergeant said. “You’ll need your CO’s permission to have a car on the base.”

  “Colonel Dawkins, you mean?”

  “No, Sir, your squadron commander will do.”

  “I command VMF-229,” Galloway said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the sergeant said, visibly surprised.

  Big Steve was right. That guy did make the connection. It will be interesting conversation at the Staff NCO Club tonight—for that matter at the Officer’s Club, too—and all over the base by tomorrow:

  “Remember that story about the Flying Sergeant of VMF211 who fixed up the F4F the Japs got on December 7? Fixed it up and flew it out to the Saratoga at sea and really pissed the Navy off? The guy they sent back to the states for court-martial? Well, he’s back, and guess what, he’s a captain, no shit, and a squadron commander!”

  The sergeant came from his typewriter and handed Galloway forms to sign and then the small metal plate.

  “You screw this on top of the Hawaiian plate, Sir,” he said. “That’ll be fifty cents, please.”

  Galloway handed him two quarters.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” the sergeant said. “You used to be a flying sergeant with VMF-211, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I thought I remembered the name,” the sergeant said.

  Would you like my autograph? How to Succeed in the Corps: Really fuck up!

  He became aware that Oblensky was tugging at the small metal plate, and released it to him. When they went outside, Oblensky opened the rumble seat, took a screwdriver from a small tool roll, and replaced the tag (for enlisted men) above the license plate with the new officer’s tag Galloway had just been given.

  “Thank you, Steve,” Galloway said. “And also for keeping the car so shipshape.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Oblensky said. “I was using it, wasn’t I? I owe you.”

  I’m not very good at this psychological bullshit, “How the wise commissioned officer should deal with the enlisted swine.” Fuck it!

  “Steve, I had you transferred to VMF-229,” Galloway said. “Is that going to cause any problems?”

  “You’re starting with problems,” Oblensky said. “What you have is fourteen pickled F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl, Christ only knows what shape they’re in; a dozen—maybe fifteen, sixteen—kids who are not sure what a wrench is used for; and a young pilot scuttlebutt says runs from fights.”

  “I mean with you and me,” Galloway said.

  Oblensky’s eyes narrowed. Galloway knew him well enough to know that meant he was angry. Very angry.

  “I don’t think I deserved that, Captain Galloway,” he said, coldly, after a moment. “I would have thought you know me well enough to know that I have been in the Corps long enough to know where the line is between those of us who wear stripes and those of you who wear bars.”

  “Christ, Steve!”

  “If the captain can remember not to call the sergeant by his Christian name where other people can hear him, the sergeant will remember not to remember that he knew the captain when he was a wiseass little fucker who made tech sergeant before he was old enough to be a pimple on a buck sergeant’s ass.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant Oblensky.”

  “The captain would be wise to do just that,” Oblensky said.

  They met each other’s eyes for a moment, and then, Oblensky first, they smiled at each other.

  “Thank you, Steve,” Galloway said.

  “When does my transfer come through?”

  “I don’t know about the paperwork, but you’re in VMF-229 as of now.”

  “In that case, why don’t we ride over and see what shape our airplanes are in? Unless there’s something I don’t know about, that would seem to be our first order of business.”

  They got in the Ford. En route to the wharfs at the Pearl Harbor Naval Station, Oblensky asked, “Remember when we painted this thing? And that Lieutenant Commander wanted to know where we got the paint, and you showed him the can from Sears, Roebuck?”

  Galloway chuckled. The paint can from Sears had been labeled, HIGH GLOSS YELLOW ENAMEL. $5.95. After they’d bought it, Oblensky had dumped the contents into a five gallon can of Navy yellow paint intended to paint lines on hangar and flight line floors. He had then refilled it—“borrowed” it from Navy stocks—with a very high quality aviation paint that was reported to be worth sixty dollars a gallon on the civilian market.

  The Ford’s new paint job had been spectacular, as the Lieutenant Commander had noticed. He had run right down to Sears to get a gallon of their $5.95 “High Gloss Yellow Enamel” to paint his own car. His Studebaker, somehow, hadn’t come out looking nearly as nice as Galloway’s Ford, and he had been disappointed and mystified.

  His own reaction at the time, Charley remembered, was that was the sort of stupid behavior you expected from a fucking officer. He was aware now that he had switched sides, that he was now a fucking officer, and considered fair game by old time non-coms like Big Steve.

  “I got some more bad news for you,” Oblensky said. “Your Lieutenant Dunn’s been fucking your girlfriend.”

  “You mean Ensign O‘Malley?”

  “Yeah. You mean you forgot her?”

  “She was never my girlfriend, Steve.”

  “Well,” Oblensky chuckled. “You were pretty fucking chummy, as I remember.”

  In the early morning of December 7, 1941, Technical Sergeant Galloway had been in bed with Ensign O‘Malley in a cabin in the hills Technical Sergeant Oblensky had borrowed for the weekend from an old and now retired Marine Corps buddy. When Oblensky had burst into the room to tell Galloway that the Japanese were attacking the Naval base at Pearl Harbor, Ensign O’Malley had been performing on Technical Sergeant Galloway’s body a sexual act that he had not even heard of previously, not even in the French movies he had sometimes seen on stag night in the Staff NCO Club.

  “What about Flo?” Galloway asked, to change the subject. “You still see her?”

  Flo was Lieutenant Florence Kocharski, Navy Nurse Corps, a lady a few years younger and not much smaller than Oblensky. They had met when Oblensky had gone to the Naval Hospital for his annual physical. It had taken them about twenty minutes to decide that it was time to break a rule both had followed for more than twenty years: Officers do not become involved with enlisted personnel.

  “I knew you’d get around to asking that, sooner or later,” Oblensky replied.

  It was not the reply Galloway expected.

  “Is there some reason I shouldn’t have asked? You were pretty fucking chummy, too, as I remember.”

  “Off the record, Captain?”

  “Off the record.”

  “We got married,” Oblensky said. “The day after you flew out to the Saratoga.”


  “Married?” Galloway asked, in disbelief.

  “We were going to get married when one of us retired anyway,” Oblensky said. “We both got our twenty-years in, and then some. So when this goddamned war came along, and they weren’t going to let us retire, we figured, fuck ‘em. We got married. Flo knew a priest who can keep his mouth shut, and we didn’t put ranks or whatever on the marriage license.”

  “You mean you got married without permission?”

  “They don’t let officers marry enlisted men, or vice versa, you know that.”

  “Well, you know I like Flo,” Galloway said, honestly. “So the first thing I’ve got to say is ‘congratulations.’ ”

  “Why don’t you just stop there, then?”

  “Christ, what are you going to do if they find out?”

  “Hope they don’t, for openers,” Oblensky said. “I don’t think they’d court-martial us.”

  “Goddamn, Steve, I don’t know.”

  “After Flo and Hot Pants O‘Malley dropped us back at the base on seven December,” Oblensky said carefully, “Flo went down to Battleship Row. She was on board West Virginia taking care of some sailors when there was a secondary explosion ... one of the five-inch magazines blew up. She caught some fragments and got burned a little, but she was still able to work, so she stuck around for a while. Some Commander saw her and put her in for a medal and the Purple Heart. We figured the Navy and/or the Corps would look pretty fucking silly court-martialing a wounded hero for marrying a Marine. Or vice versa, a Marine for marrying a wounded hero.”

  “They’re going to be pissed,” Galloway said.

  “Well, they were pissed at you, too, and now look at you,” Oblensky said.

  “I didn’t think to ask,” Galloway said. “Were you in trouble because of what I did?”

  “They were pretty excited for a while right afterward,” Oblensky said. “But you were the one who flew the airplane, not me. I don’t expect to get promoted any time soon, though.”

  “What are you going to do about the paperwork?” Galloway asked. “Who’s the dependent, for example? You, or Flo?”