Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1445 HOURS 7 JULY 1942

  Lieutenant Colonel Clyde D. Dawkins, USMC, commanding, MAG-21, was by no means unhappy with First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR. He would have been happier, of course, if Ward had another five hundred hours of flight time, all of it in F4F-4s; but compared to the other replacement pilots they were getting fresh from Pensacola, Ward was a grizzled veteran.

  He liked his attitude, too, which was not surprising, since Charley Galloway had recruited him. Galloway would not recruit a fool or a troublemaker.

  “Captain Galloway until recently was a flying sergeant. Is that going to pose any problems for you?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ward replied. “I mean I knew he was a flying sergeant. He was a sergeant when he taught me to fly the R4D, Sir.” The question had obviously surprised him. “I don’t know what you mean about problems, Sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Ward, there are some officers, generally very stupid officers, who resent Mustangs. I’m pleased to see that you’re not one of them.”

  “No, Sir. I consider myself very fortunate to have a squadron commander who knows what he’s doing.”

  Dawkins restrained a smile at the honest naïveté of the remark.

  “Mr. Ward,” he said sternly, “you are not suggesting, I trust, that there are squadron commanders who do not know what they are doing?”

  Ward flushed.

  “Sir,” he began lamely.

  “I know what you mean, Mr. Ward,” Dawkins laughed. “That works both ways. I’m glad to have Charley Galloway as one of my squadron commanders. I share your opinion that he knows what he’s doing. I will refrain from comment on my other squadron commanders.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ward said. His relief was evident on his face.

  “I thought there were two of you?” Dawkins said.

  “Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Schneider is outside.”

  Dawkins stood up and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ward. We’re glad to have you. I’m available to my officers for any reason, around the clock.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Would you send Mister—what did you say, ‘Schneider’? —in please?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins was initially very favorably impressed with First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC. He was a well-set-up young man; he looked remarkably crisp for someone who had just flown from the States to Hawaii. And he wore an Annapolis ring. Colonel Dawkins had been commissioned from Annapolis.

  There were very few officers in the pre-war Navy who were not Annapolis graduates.

  There was a theory ... it was soon to be tested in the crucible of war ... that the real value of Annapolis graduates to the country did not derive from their experience manning the ships of the peacetime Navy, but from the fact that they would now serve as the firm skeleton for the flesh and musculature of the enormous Navy that would be required to win the war.

  Some of this would come from the presumed professionalism and Naval expertise that could be expected of a man who had spent his life, from the age of seventeen or eighteen, in Naval uniform. The rest would come because the Annapolis graduates—from ensigns, to first lieutenants, USMC, to admirals—would serve as role models for an officer corps that would be seventy or eighty percent civilian Marines and sailors. Dawkins privately thought that this was the more important of the two.

  Even if they had difficulty admitting this in person to a graduate of Hudson High, virtually all Annapolis graduates both admired and tried hard to adhere to the code West Point put in words, Duty, Honor, Country.

  And so Dawkins felt at first that Galloway was fortunate to have someone like Schneider in his squadron. He even imagined, somewhat wryly, that Schneider might be able to temper Charley Galloway’s policy that he had greater right to any government property that was not chained to the ground or under armed guard than whoever it was issued to.

  He was so impressed with Schneider that he almost passed over the question he had asked Lieutenant Ward, and in fact every other officer newly assigned to VMF-229. But in the end, he did ask him:

  “Captain Galloway until recently was a flying sergeant. Is that going to pose any problems for you?”

  “No, Sir. Not for me, Sir.”

  Why don’t I like that response? What did he say? “Not for me”?

  “Not for you? Is that what you said, Mr. Schneider? Are you suggesting that it might be a problem for Captain Galloway?”

  “Sir,” Schneider said, with a disarming smile, “I’m a regular. I know that before Captain Galloway was commissioned, a good deal of thought went into it. I certainly don’t mean to suggest that Captain Galloway is not a first rate squadron commander.”

  “But?”

  “Sir, what I’m saying, badly I’m afraid, is that I really wish I hadn’t served with Captain Galloway when he was an enlisted man.”

  What bothers me about that? Dawkins wondered, and then he understood: You didn’t serve with Charley Galloway, Lieutenant, with him on your wing, or vice versa. He was your IP. By definition, IPs are superior to their students. I’m getting the idea, you presumptuous puppy, that you think an officer of suitable grade should have been assigned to instruct an officer and a gentleman and an Annapolis graduate such as yourself.

  “Because you will always think of him as a sergeant, you mean?”

  “No, Sir. Because I think he may remember that I was one of his officers. And that might be a little awkward for him.”

  So you’re a fucking liar, too, Mr. Schneider? I’ll be goddamned! And an arrogant sonofabitch, too, if you really thought you were going to take me in with that bullshit.

  “I think I take your point,” Dawkins said. “Well, let me give it a little thought. Perhaps we could quietly arrange a transfer for you to one of the other squadrons.”

  “I wouldn’t want any special treatment, Sir.”

  “I understand,” Dawkins said. “We’re talking about the good of the service, aren’t we?”

  “I think so, Sir.”

  What I don’t understand is how this asshole fooled Charley Galloway. Maybe there’s something here I’m missing. But if Galloway hasn’t figured this self-serving prick out, I will transfer him for the good of the service. Charley has enough on his mind without worrying about this back-stabbing prick. He’ll spend the rest of this fucking war test-flying Piper Cubs in Kansas.

  “Well, that seems to be about it, Mr. Schneider,” Dawkins said. “Unless there’s something on your mind?”

  “I hate ... ”

  “Let’s hear it?”

  “My Uncle Dan is over at Pearl, Sir. On the CINCPAC staff. I wonder if there’s any chance that I could get over to see him for a couple of hours before I begin my duties here?”

  “Your Uncle Dan? I know a Karl Schneider ... ”

  “This is my mother’s brother, Sir. Daniel Wagam. Admiral Wagam.”

  You didn’t lose any time letting me know that, did you?

  Dawkins looked over Schneider’s head at the clock on the wall. It was twenty after three. Certainly, Galloway wasn’t going to put Schneider in a cockpit today. For one thing, it was too late. For another, Schneider was just off a long plane ride from the States. What Galloway probably had in mind was taking this prick and the nice kid over to the club so they could meet the other squadron officers. That could wait.

  “Why don’t you call and see if Admiral Wagam has time for you?” Dawkins said. “If he does, we’ll get you a ride over there. I’m sure the admiral could arrange to get you back here by 0500 tomorrow, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m sure he’d be able to do that.”

  Dawkins pointed to his telephone.

  “Help yourself, Mr. Schneider.”

  (Four)

  HEADQUARTERS, VMF-229

  EWA USMC AIR STATION

  OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1640 HOURS 7 JULY 1942

  When Captain Charles M. Galloway walked
into his headquarters, two people were waiting for him, Lieutenant Jim Ward and PFC Alfred B. Hastings. Both rose to their feet.

  Galloway was starting to wonder where Schneider was when he noticed that PFC Hastings was holding something in his hand. It was a piece of cardboard, a laundry shirt stiffener, on which he had drawn a rather nicely done skull and crossbones, the international symbol of danger; an oak leaf, the insignia of majors and lieutenant colonels; and an arrow pointing to Galloway’s office.

  “Stand at ease,” Galloway said sternly. He smiled at Ward, winked at PFC Hastings, and walked into his office.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” he said.

  Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins was sitting in Charley’s chair with his feet on Charley’s desk. “You look like shit, Charley,” he replied. “How many hours were you up today?”

  “Six, I guess. Maybe a little more.”

  “Well, cut it down,” Dawkins said. “I don’t want to find myself writing ‘pilot fatigue’ as the probable cause of your fatal accident.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “Close the door,” Dawkins said.

  Charley did so.

  Dawkins was not through with him.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded. “You didn’t start flying last week. You know better.”

  “Big Steve had a bunch of airplanes that needed test flying. I flew them,” Galloway answered.

  “How many have you got operational?”

  “Eighteen, Sir. All of them,” Galloway said, not without a hint of pride in his voice. “I have more operational aircraft than I do pilots.”

  “Christ, that was quick,” Dawkins said.

  “Big Steve’s as good as they come.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got a commanding officer who takes dumb chances test-flying them when he should know better.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Galloway said.

  “OK. Tomorrow you don’t fly. Tonight, go get drunk. Consider that an order.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. Actually, Sir, that thought had gone through my mind.”

  “I’m serious about this, goddamn you. I want you commanding VMF-229, not some kid six months out of Pensacola.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “But that’s not the reason I am here, instead of inside a cold martini,” Dawkins said. “I have interviewed your two new officers, Captain. The one outside seems to be a nice enough kid. Maybe too nice. Tell me about the other one.”

  Galloway hesitated.

  “Out of school, Charley. Consider me your friendly parish priest. Bare your soul.”

  “The miserable sonofabitch knows how to fly,” Galloway said.

  “Really?” Dawkins asked doubtfully.

  “He’s really good,” Charley said. “I need pilots like that. And I can handle the sonofabitch part.”

  “Did you know his uncle is an admiral? Admiral Wagam at CINCPAC?”

  “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’s trade-school,” Charley said, and then heard what he had said. “Sorry, Sir.”

  “Some of us trade-school graduates are sterling fellows,” Dawkins said. “But—and I wouldn’t want this to get around—a very small percentage are genuine pricks. I think your man Schneider is one of them.”

  “I can handle him, Sir,” Charley said.

  “Well, that’s what I came to find out. If he starts giving you trouble, let me know.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “He’s over at Pearl with his uncle the admiral,” Dawkins said. “I’m not sure if that’s because they have a close-knit family or because he wanted me to know that his uncle is an admiral. But I told him he could go, and to be back at 0500. Will that cause any problems for you?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Dawkins looked into Galloway’s eyes for a moment, and then snorted. He swung his feet off the desk.

  “You know what will cause a real problem for you, Captain?”

  “Sir?”

  “If I don’t see you at the club tonight, really spiffy in your whites, having trouble with slurred speech and the other effects of alcohol.”

  “Well, Sir, that will cause a problem,” Charley said. “While I’m sure my speech will probably get a little slurred as the night progresses, I hadn’t planned to go to the club. I would really much rather not go to the club.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it, Captain. Neither do I want to hear that, clear-eyed and bushy-tailed, you went anywhere near an airplane tomorrow.”

  “Aye, Aye, Sir.”

  “You’ve done a good job here, Charley,” Dawkins said. “Christ, I didn’t think you’d have eighteen operational aircraft for another two weeks.”

  “That’s Big Steve, Sir, not me.”

  “Bullshit. But it raises a question. How much flying are you giving your people?”

  “Sir?”

  “How many hours a day are they flying?”

  “No more than four, Sir.”

  “Do as I say, not as I do, right? Cut down your flying hours, Charley. I mean that.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Captain,” Dawkins said. “We must have another, real soon.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, and walked through. Lieutenant Ward and PFC Hastings came to attention. He walked past them, then stopped and turned, and went back to Hastings.

  “Captain Galloway’s been telling me of your good work, Son,” he said. “Keep it up!”

  “Yes, Sir,” Hastings said. He glowed with pride.

  What the fuck was that all about? Charley wondered. I didn’t say a word to him about Hastings. Was that just applyanywhere bullshit? Or was it Lesson Three in how to be a good commander?

  He saw Jim Ward looking into the office.

  What the hell do I do with him tonight?

  He waved him into the office.

  “Dave went to Pearl Harbor,” Jim Ward said. “He got permission from the colonel.”

  “So I hear. Did you get settled in the BOQ?”

  Ward nodded. Somewhat uneasily, he said, “Did you know his uncle is an admiral?”

  “No. Not until just now.”

  “This is going to sound ridiculous,” Jim Ward said. “But I promised Aunt Caroline I would ask. Six hours after I got here. Are you wearing your necklace?”

  Charley pulled the zipper of his flying suit down and pointed to the medallion.

  “Oh,” Ward said, smiling. “I thought it might be something like that. Are you Episcopal?”

  “No. But do you think God really gives a damn?”

  Jim Ward looked startled for a moment, then replied; “Hell, no.”

  Galloway made up his mind what he was going to do with Jim Ward.

  “You can meet the rest of the guys tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to go have dinner with some friends of mine.”

  “Won’t I be in the way?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Charley said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  PFC Hastings rose once again from behind his typewriter as they walked into the outer office.

  “Two things, Hastings,” Charley said.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been here after 1730.”

  “Sir, I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “It’ll wait.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. And the second thing?”

  “Cut a promotion order for the colonel’s signature,” Galloway said. “Make yourself a corporal.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  (Five)

  NEAR WAIALUA, OAHU

  TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1800 HOURS 7 JULY 1942

  Greeting her dinner guests, Lieutenant Commander Florence Kocharski, Nurse Corps, USN, was attired in sandals and a shapeless, loose fitting cotton dress printed with brightly colored flowers, called a Muumuu. Over her ear she had a gardenia stuck through her silver hair.

  “Hi, Charley,” she said and let him kiss her cheek.

 
He handed her a brown paper sack which obviously contained bottles.

  “Flo, this is Jim Ward,” Charley Galloway said. “He’s a friend of mine. I didn’t think you would mind if I brought him along.”

  “No, of course not,” Flo said, not very convincingly. “There’s enough food to feed an army. How are you, Lieutenant?”

  “I said ‘friend,’ Flo,” Charley said. “His aunt is my girl. He introduced us.”

  Technical Sergeant Stefan Oblensky, USMC, attired in sandals, short pants, and a gaily flowered loose fitting cotton shirt, appeared behind her.

  “Jesus, Charley!” he said, his tone torn between hurt and anger.

  “I’m going to say this again,” Galloway said. “Jim is a friend. More than a friend. Damned near family. My girl is his aunt.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Big Steve said, far from mollified.

  “And I told him what’s going on here,” Charley said. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “What the hell,” Flo said. “What’s done is done. Come on and we’ll open the jug.” She put her arm around Jim Ward. “I know more about your aunt than I really want to know,” she said. “He doesn’t talk about her much, but once he gets started, you can’t shut him up.”

  Jim smiled at her shyly.

  “He told me about you, too,” he said.

  “He did? What?”

  “About you being on the West Virginia on Pearl Harbor Day and getting the Silver Star.”

  “Like I say, sometimes you can’t shut him up,” Flo said.

  With her arm still around his shoulders—she was just as tall as he was, and outweighed him by twenty pounds—Flo marched Jim Ward across the small living room of the frame cottage and into the kitchen.

  She took the two bottles of scotch from the bag, opened one, and set out glasses. Then she reached under the sink and opened an insulated gray steel container, labeled MEDICAL CORPS USN, and took ice from it.

  “No refrigerator,” she said, as she dropped ice cubes in the glasses, “and the head is that small wooden building out there. But what the hell, what do they say, ‘Be It Ever So Humble’?”

  “It’s very nice,” Jim said.