In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You can fly a Corsair?” Pickering asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Don’t start that crap again, Hem,” McInerney said.

  “Sorry,” Pickering said.

  Spectowski and Damon were already strapped into BuAir versions of airline seats. Pickering smiled at them as he followed McInerney into the cockpit. A moment after he sat down in the copilot’s seat and strapped himself in, McInerney handed him the major general’s flag.

  “Stick this in your ear, or some other suitable bodily orifice, General,” McInerney said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Pickering said. He took the flag and found a place for it behind his seat.

  Lieutenant Sylvester stuck his head in the cockpit door.

  “Anytime you’re ready, General,” he said.

  “Okay, Tony. Find yourself a seat,” McInerney said, and reached for the plastic-coated checklist. “Ordinarily, the guy in the right seat reads this off for the pilot,” he said. “But I realize that the eyes of an old fart like you can’t handle the small print.”

  Three minutes later, Anacostia Departure Control cleared Marine Oh Oh Six for immediate take off on Runway Two Six, and McInerney reached for the throttle quadrant and advanced the throttles to takeoff power.

  He was about to reach for his microphone when he heard Pickering’s voice in his earphones: “Anacostia, Marine Double Oh Six, rolling.”

  Thirty seconds later, McInerney eased back on the wheel and the rumble of the wheels stopped.

  “Wheels up,” he ordered.

  “Wheels up,” Pickering parroted, and then a few seconds later added, “Wheels up and locked.”

  McInerney looked at him. “Well, maybe I’m wrong,” he said. “Maybe you’re not as useless as teats on a boar hog.”

  When they had reached cruising altitude and McInerney had trimmed the Gooney Bird up, he turned to Pickering. “What do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

  “Let’s start with the good,” Pickering said. “I haven’t had much of that lately.”

  “For once, the phones worked, and I got through to Dawkins at Ewa. You know the Dawk, don’t you?”

  “He had the MAG on Guadalcanal,” Pickering said. “Very good guy.”

  “Yeah. Well, I had an idea. Big Steve Oblensky has forgotten more about Catalinas than most people ever learn. Before his heart went bad, he picked up a lot of time flying them. And he’s one hell of a mechanic, too. Airframe and engine. So I asked the Dawk if he would mind lending him to this project of yours. For the first of the bad news, Dawkins seemed to know a lot about it. One of the Navy’s pilots involved in the first refueling attempt ran off at the mouth.”

  “There seems to be an epidemic of that,” Pickering said.

  McInerney looked at him curiously but didn’t pursue it. “Anyway, Dawk told me that Big Steve is already working on the Catalinas with your pal Jake Dillon.”

  “Thank you,” Pickering said. “I should have thought of that.”

  “Then the Dawk asked me a question, which brings us to Part Two of the bad news. He wanted to know if I was thinking of volunteering Charley Galloway to fly the mission. He obviously hoped I would say no firmly, which I did.”

  “I didn’t even think that Charley would volunteer.”

  “You know how many volunteers we did get?”

  Pickering shook his head, “no.”

  “Two,” McInerney said.

  “Two?” Pickering parroted incredulously.

  “One of them is up on charges for writing rubber checks all over the West Coast, and the other is facing a Flight Evaluation Board. According to his commanding officer, the Board is almost certain to take his wings for gross incompetence.”

  “I’m surprised,” Pickering confessed. “Only two.”

  “Almost nobody wants to fly a Catalina in the first place,” McInerney said. “And most of the people who are flying them want to get out of Cats. Long-over-water flights are (a) dangerous and (b) boring, and that’s what you do when you fly Catalinas, day after day. If I was flying fighters, I damned sure wouldn’t volunteer to fly Catalinas. I wasn’t all that surprised, but I did think we’d get maybe six, maybe more, volunteers.”

  “And what do we do now?”

  “The night you almost got blown away in France, do you remember volunteering to go take out that machine gun?”

  Pickering didn’t reply.

  “The way I recall it,” McInerney said, “Lieutenant Davis said, ‘Pickering, go take out that machine gun. And take McInerney and’—what the hell was his name? He got about thirty feet out of the trench.”

  “Blumenson,” Pickering said softly, remembering an entirely different war a long time ago. “Private Aaron Blumenson. He was from Cicero, Illinois. A sniper got him. In the throat.”

  “…and Blumenson with you.’” McInerney went on. “In other words, realizing (a) that Sergeant Pickering, Corporal McInerney, and Private Blumenson were not about to volunteer to do something dangerous and (b) that unless somebody took that Maxim away from Fritz, a lot of Marines were going to have holes in them, Lieutenant Davis did what he had to do. He volunteered us to do what had to be done.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” Pickering asked, and then, before McInerney had a chance to reply, added: “I volunteered McCoy to go into the Gobi and see if he can find those people. It has to be done, and he was the guy to do it.”

  “You can have Galloway, Flem, if you say so,” McInerney said.

  Pickering looked at him.

  “It has to be done, and Charley’s good at this sort of thing,” McInerney added.

  “I thought you said you told Dawkins you weren’t volunteering Galloway?”

  “I’m not. I’m really short of fighter pilots, Flem. In my judgment what Charley is doing now, putting some backbone into that collection of misfits in VMF-229, is damned important. I don’t know anybody else who could do what he’s doing. But it’s your call, General. You have the priority. If you want Charley Galloway, you can have him.”

  Pickering did not reply directly. “Who else is available? Who else were you thinking of volunteering?” he asked.

  “One major for sure. He’s got a lot of Catalina time, and more important, he’s a good officer. That will be important, because the volunteers I volunteer are probably going to show up manifesting a magnificent lack of enthusiasm. I’ll get you pilots, Flem. Good ones.”

  “Let’s put Charley Galloway on the Only If Absolutely Necessary List,” Pickering said.

  “Thank you,” McInerney said.

  “Where is this major I am going to get? How soon can I have him?”

  “He’s at Pensacola,” McInerney said. “What I think I’ll do, Flem, instead of going back to Anacostia tomorrow, is go to Pensacola and tell him that not only has he just Volunteered, but he’ll see if he can’t come up with somebody else, too.”

  “How soon can I have him? And the somebody else?”

  “It’ll take a couple of days to get orders cut.”

  “Plus a week or so for a delay en route leave to see his family,” Pickering said.

  “He’s got his family with him at Pensacola.”

  “The sooner I can have him, have all the pilots, the better.”

  “I understand.”

  [TWO]

  Base Operations

  Memphis Naval Air Station

  Memphis, Tennessee

  2245 28 March 1943

  Rear Admiral Jesse R. Ball, USN, Flag Officer Commanding Naval Air Station, Memphis, arrived at base operations in his official 1941 Navy gray Plymouth staff car, at almost the same time that First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, drove up in his privately owned motor vehicle, a fire-engine-red 1941 Cadillac convertible coupe. Admiral Ball knew Lieutenant Pickering only by reputation, and to the best of his recollection had never before laid eyes on him, but there was no question in his mind that the driver of the fire-engine-red Cadillac was Lieutenant Pickering.

  There had been
seven incident reports in the office of the base provost marshal, five of them chronicling off-base speeding-limit violations and two of them on-base speeding-limit violations by a Lieutenant Pickering at the wheel of a Cadillac convertible. Admiral Ball thought it highly unlikely that the driver of the Cadillac was anyone but First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR.

  Though it had been Admiral Ball’s intention to speak with Lieutenant Pickering as this day’s first order of business, that did not prove possible. When his aide had called VMF-262 to direct Lieutenant Pickering to present himself forthwith at the Admiral’s office, he had been informed that Lieutenant Pickering was leading half a dozen of VMF-262’s Corsairs on a cross-country training flight and was not expected back until late that night, or—considering the possibilities of bad weather or some other exigency of the Naval Service—possibly not until the following morning.

  Admiral Ball had then directed his aide to ask Captain William C. Dunn, USMCR, Lieutenant Pickering’s immediate superior officer, to present himself immediately. Admiral Ball knew Captain Dunn and regarded him as a fine officer. He also knew that Captain Dunn and Lieutenant Pickering had flown together—had indeed become aces together—flying Wildcats off Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. It was not surprising, therefore, that Captain Dunn proved extremely reluctant to discuss his knowledge of Lieutenant Pickering’s amorous activities, or other strayings from the path of righteousness. In fact, he did a remarkable job trying to cover his buddy’s ass. It became immediately apparent to Admiral Ball that if he was going to get a full picture of Lieutenant Pickering, it was not going to be from Captain Dunn. He sought out other sources of information.

  By noon, it was clear to Admiral Ball that Lieutenant Pickering was a royal fuckup, even by comparison with other Marine Corps fighter pilots. His transgressions ranged from doing barrel rolls at an estimated altitude of 100 feet and a speed of 350 knots over the Memphis Air Station’s control tower to hiding his salami in the banker’s wife. His only surprise was that an officer with such a history had not previously come to his official attention.

  Admiral Ball had left word with VMF-262 late that afternoon that he expected to see Lieutenant Pickering either at 0800 the next day or immediately upon his return to Memphis NAS, whichever occurred first.

  Then he put from his mind the unfortunate business of an out-of-control Marine fighter pilot and turned to something pleasant. Memphis NAS had been informed that Major General D. G. McInerney, the just-promoted Deputy Chief of Marine Corps Aviation, would arrive sometime after 2200 hours and would remain overnight. Jesse Ball and Mac McInerney went way back. They had done a tour together aboard the old Lexington, when the Admiral had been a j.g. lieutenant and Mac a brand-new Marine captain. As far as Jesse was concerned, Mac’s promotion was long overdue. They would wet down his new stars together. Jesse wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Mac was coming to Memphis for just that purpose.

  And now here was the notorious Lieutenant Pickering, getting out of his red Cadillac, wearing, the Admiral noticed, his leather flight jacket and not the prescribed uniform, including any sort of uniform headgear. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he might just have landed and not yet had time to put on what he was supposed to be wearing. According to record, he’d been cited fourteen times for not being in the properly appointed uniform.

  When Lieutenant Pickering saw the Admiral, he saluted. It was more in the nature of a casual wave of his hand in the vicinity of his forehead than a proper salute. “Good evening, Admiral,” Lieutenant Pickering said.

  Admiral Ball returned the salute. He said nothing about the absence of headgear. That violation of regulation paled in comparison to his other transgressions against good order and discipline.

  “Just landed, did you, Lieutenant?” Admiral Ball asked.

  There was a slight hesitation before Lieutenant Pickering replied. “More or less, sir.”

  Which means, of course, that he does not want to lie about it.

  “You’re going out again, are you, Lieutenant?”

  “Actually, sir, I’m meeting someone coming in,” Pickering replied.

  With a little bit of luck, he’ll be standing there, hatless, when Mac gets off his airplane. Once Mac has had a word with him regarding the necessity of Marine officers always being in the proper uniform—all of it, including headgear—he will wear a hat when taking a shower.

  Admiral Ball grunted and walked into base operations.

  Five minutes later, the R4-D touched down on time (it had filed a Direct Memphis flight plan from Anacostia). Admiral Ball was so informed by the AOD.

  Admiral Ball immediately began asking himself questions: Had something happened and Mac wasn’t on the Gooney Bird? There had been no word from the aircraft to the tower that a general officer was aboard. And when the plane taxied up to the ramp in front of base ops, there was no general’s flag flapping from a short staff next to the pilot’s side window.

  It wasn’t until the Gooney Bird had turned around and its nose was facing base ops that Admiral Ball saw General McInerney’s face in the cockpit.

  Admiral Ball smiled as he walked toward the airplane. The smile vanished when he saw that Lieutenant Pickering was doing the same thing.

  What the hell is he doing out here?

  He waited until Mac had shut down the engines and then called up at him, “Still letting you fly, are they, old buddy?”

  “Damn, Jesse,” General McInerney called back. “What are you doing out here this late at night? Isn’t it long past your bedtime?”

  “Well, I was going to buy you a drink, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “I accept. Let me shut this thing down, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Admiral Ball walked to the fuselage door just as it opened, and the steps dropped down.

  The first person off was a Marine brigadier general.

  I wonder who that is? Mac’s deputy? He’s not an aviator.

  Lieutenant Pickering addressed the general officer: “What the hell were you doing in the cockpit?”

  “I am perfectly able to manipulate the landing gear, as you damned well know, hotshot,” the general said, and then he wrapped his arms around Lieutenant Pickering.

  My God, it’s his father!

  General Pickering spotted Admiral Ball and saluted. “I’m Fleming Pickering, Admiral,” he said, as Ball returned the salute.

  “Welcome to Memphis NAS, General,” Admiral Ball said. “We didn’t know you were coming, or we’d have had the senior Marine here to greet you.”

  “No problem at all. This is the Marine I came to see.”

  Lieutenants Sylvester and Hart deplaned next, followed by Chief Spectowski and Petty Officer Damon. Baggage followed. Finally, Major General McInerney came down the ladder. Lieutenant Pickering saluted him. McInerney returned it.

  “How are you, Pick?” General McInerney called cheerfully. “Skating on thin ice as usual, I see?”

  God, he knows Mac well enough for Mac to call him by his first name!

  “Sir?”

  “This aging admiral here is old Navy, Pick,” McInerney said, nodding at Admiral Ball. “He likes officers to be in uniform. Where the hell is your cover?”

  Lieutenant Pickering snapped his fingers and looked mildly embarrassed. “I must have left it in the car. I’ll go get it.”

  “Don’t bother,” Admiral Ball heard himself saying. “No one will see you out here.”

  “Getting soft in your old age, are you, Jesse?” McInerney asked. “There was a time when you would have ordered him keelhauled.”

  “Now I know a wise officer has to make allowances for Marines,” Admiral Ball said. “They’re not really human.”

  I am not going to let this goddamn pup foul up my seeing Mac!

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Jesse,” McInerney said. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re outnumbered by Marines.”

  “We’re going to need more wheels than we have,” General Pickering s
aid.

  “That means we’re really going to have to impose on your hospitality, Jesse,” McInerney said.

  “What do you need, Mac?”

  “We need a guard on this airplane. An armed guard,” General Pickering said.

  “No problem, General,” Admiral Ball said. “And what else?”

  “Quarters overnight for the Chief and his friend.”

  “No problem. What else?”

  “In the morning, I’ll need a copilot for the Gooney Bird. It’s going first to Chicago and then to ’Diego,” McInerney said. “And I’m going to have to borrow one of your Corsairs.”

  “That can be arranged, no problem,” Admiral Ball said.

  “And then we’ll need a ride for the rest of us into Memphis, to the hotel,” McInerney said. “We all won’t fit in Pick’s car.”

  “You’re going to Memphis?”

  “To the Peabody,” General Pickering confirmed. “And a cordial invitation is extended to you, Admiral, to join us while Mac and I wash down his new stars.”

  “General McInerney and I go back a long way, General,” Admiral Ball said.

  “Not as far as Flem and I do, Jesse,” McInerney said. “Flem was my sergeant at Château-Thierry.”

  “Why don’t you and your aide ride with me, Mac? And General Pickering and his aide can ride with Lieutenant Pickering?”

  Who will as certainly as the sun will rise drive that Cadillac into Memphis wearing his leather jacket and no cover. Probably at twenty miles over the speed limit.

  “Sounds fine,” General Pickering said. “How about the Chief and his friend? And the guard for the airplane?”

  “The AOD can handle that.” Admiral Ball nodded at the AOD, who was standing a respectful distance away waiting for his orders. Admiral Ball motioned for him to come over.

  “So you and General Pickering are old friends, are you?” Admiral Ball asked General McInerney as they were driving into Memphis.

  “I was with him the night he got—and damned well earned—the Navy Cross. All bullshit aside, he saved my life that night.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.”

  “He got out after the war. He runs—owns—Pacific and Far East Shipping. And his father-in-law owns the Foster hotel chain. Roosevelt commissioned him a brigadier when he came back in the Corps.”