But the second weekend Big Steve asked to borrow the Ford, he had to tell Charley why he wanted it. And Charley Galloway asked if Big Steve’s nurse had a friend.
“Jesus Christ, Charley! I can’t ask her nothing like that! Be a pal.”
“You ask her, she says no, then I’ll be a pal. But you ask her.”
To Big Steve’s surprise, Flo Kocharski was neither outraged nor astonished when, with remarkable delicacy, Big Steve brought the subject up.
Ensign Mary Agnes O’Malley, Lieutenant Kocharski’s roommate, had already noticed T/Sgt. Charles Galloway at the wheel of his yellow Ford convertible and asked her about him. She’d asked specifically about how he came to have pilot’s wings. Ensign O’Malley had just recently entered the Navy and had not known that enlisted men could be pilots.
There was a small corps of enlisted pilots, Lieutenant Kocharski explained to her. These were officially called Naval Aviation Pilots, but more commonly “flying sergeants.” T/Sgt. Charles Galloway was one of them. He was a fighter pilot of VMF-211, where her Stefan was the NCO in charge of Aircraft Maintenance.
“He’s darling,” Ensign O’Malley replied.
Lieutenant Kocharski didn’t think “darling” was the right word, but Charley Galloway was a good-looking kid, and she was not surprised that Mary Agnes O’Malley found him attractive.
Lieutenant Kocharski ended the conversation on that particular note—to protect young Sergeant Galloway from Ensign O’Malley. Ensign O’Malley was not a bright-eyed innocent. She had entered the Navy late, at thirty-three, rather than right out of nursing school, which was usually the case. Florence, naturally curious, had in time wormed her history out of her.
Before she joined the Navy, Ensign Mary Agnes O’Malley had been a nun, a nursing sister of the Sisters of Mercy. She had become a postulant in the order at sixteen. And she had served faithfully and well for many years after that. First she became a registered nurse, and later she qualified as both an operating-room nurse and a nurse anesthesiologist. Later still, she was seduced by a married anesthesiologist, an M.D., while taking an advanced course at Massachusetts General Hospital.
She didn’t blame the doctor, Mary Agnes told Florence. She had not been wearing her Sisters of Mercy habit at Mass General, and she had not told the doctor, ever, that she was a nun. But once she had tasted the forbidden fruit, she realized that she could no longer adhere to a vow of chastity, and petitioned the Vatican for release from her vows.
The Navy was then actively recruiting nurses, and she was highly qualified, so she signed on.
In the four months she had known her, Flo had come to understand that beneath Mary Agnes O’Malley’s demure and modest façade, there lurked a predator with the morals of an alley cat. Mary Agnes frankly admitted, in confidence, that she was making up for lost time.
So when Big Steve came to her about Charley Galloway, Flo Kocharski felt a certain uneasiness about turning Mary Agnes loose on him. Charley was a really nice kid. On the other hand, if he hadn’t leaned on Stefan to get himself fixed up as the price of borrowing his car, she wouldn’t have had to.
What neither Flo nor Big Steve knew, or even remotely suspected, was that Charley Galloway was far less experienced in relations between the sexes than anyone who knew him would have suspected. During their first night together in the cabin, Mary Alice quickly and delightfully learned that Charley was the antithesis of jaded. Yet not even she suspected that the first time in his twenty-five years Charley had spent the whole night with a woman was that very same night.
Charley’s sexual drives—and sometimes he thought he was cursed with an overgenerous issue of them—were flagrantly heterosexual. Neither was he troubled with any religious or moral restraints. His fantasies were about equally divided between the normal—meeting a well-stacked nymphomaniac whose father owned a liquor store—and meeting a nice, respectable girl and getting married.
He had encountered neither in his eight years in the Corps.
And there was something else: he didn’t want to fuck up. The price would be too high. The most important thing in the world, during his first few years in the Corps, had been to work his way up to the point where the Corps would send him to Pensacola and teach him how to fly.
Catching a dose of the clap, or maybe just getting hauled in by the military police in one of their random raids on a whorehouse, would have kept him from getting promoted and getting sent to flight school. And once he’d made staff sergeant and won a berth at Pensacola and then his wings, just about the same restrictions had applied.
Naval Aviation Pilots were noncommissioned officers, in other words, enlisted men. Since Aviation was set up with a general understanding that pilots would be commissioned officers and gentlemen, the Marine Corps had never really figured out how to deal with noncom fliers.
Enlisted pilots had crept into the system back in the 1920s. The three originals had been aircraft mechanics who had learned how to fly on the job during the Marine intervention in Santo Domingo. The criterion for selection of pilots then, as Charley had heard it, and as he believed, was “anyone who was demonstrably unlikely to crash a nonreplaceable airplane.”
The Marine commander in Santo Domingo had looked at his brand-new, fresh-from-flight-school commissioned pilots and then at his experienced sergeants, and had decided that the very, very nonreplaceable airplanes at his disposal were better off being flown by the sergeants, whether they were officially rated or not.
The second reason for the existence of “flying sergeants” was money. In the years between the wars, Congress had been parsimonious toward the armed services, and especially toward the Corps. Officer manning levels were cast in concrete. This meant that every enlisted Naval Aviation Pilot freed up an officer billet for use elsewhere. And, of course, flying sergeants were paid less than officers.
Charley Galloway had started out as an aviation mechanic, right out of Parris Island, when he was seventeen. Three years later, a space for an NAP had unexpectedly opened at Pensacola, and he was the only qualified body around to fill it. On the other hand, he was an enlisted man. Most Naval Aviators (Marine pilots were all Naval Aviators) were commissioned officers and gentlemen, and many of them were graduates of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis.
There was an enormous social chasm between commissioned officers and gentlemen and noncommissioned officers, who were, under law, men, and not gentlemen. There was also resentment from the other direction toward flying sergeants from sergeants who didn’t fly and who thus didn’t get extra pay for what looked to them like a cushy berth.
Charley Galloway soon learned that about the only people who didn’t think Naval Aviation Pilots were an all-around pain in the ass were fellow pilots, who judged NAPs by their flying ability. As a rule of thumb, NAPs were, if anything, slightly more proficient than their commissioned counterparts. In the first place, most of them were older and more experienced than Charley. And most of them had large blocks of bootleg time before they went to Pensacola to learn how to fly officially.
Charley had developed a good relationship with the pilots of VMF-211 (Marine Fighter Squadron 211), based on his reputation both as a pilot and a responsible noncom. That would go down the toilet in an instant if he came down with a dose of the clap, or got caught visiting a whorehouse or screwing somebody’s willing wife. They would take his wings away and he wouldn’t fly anymore. It looked to him like a choice between flying and fucking, and flying won hands down.
But since Friday night, when they’d picked up Big Steve’s nurse and her roommate in Honolulu, there seemed to be convincing evidence that he could accomplish both.
“Ouch!” Technical Sergeant Charles M. Galloway yelped. “Jesus Christ!”
“Sorry,” Ensign Mary Agnes O’Malley said contritely. “The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt it.” She looked up at him and smiled. She kissed it. “All better!” she said.
She straddled him.
The door burst op
en.
Big Steve stood there in his skivvy shorts, a strange look on his face.
“Get the hell out of here!” Charley flared.
“Well, really! Don’t people knock where you come from, for Christ’s sake?” Mary Agnes O’Malley snapped.
“The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor,” Big Steve said. “It just come over the radio.”
“I heard the engines,” Charley said. “I thought it was those Air Corps B-17s.”
Charley Galloway sat up, and dislodged Mary Agnes.
How the hell am I going to fly? he thought. I’ve been drinking all night.
And then he had another thought.
I’ll be a sonofabitch! I should have known that the first time I ever got to have a steady piece of ass, something would come along to fuck it up.
(Three)
Marine Airfield
Ewa, Oahu Island, Territory of Hawaii
7 December 1941
While everybody else on December 7 was running around Ewa—and for that matter, the Hawaiian Islands—like chickens with their heads cut off, Technical Sergeants Charley Galloway and Stefan “Big Steve” Oblensky had gone to Captain Leonard J. Martin, the ranking officer on the scene, and asked for permission to take a half-dozen men and try to salvage what they could from the carnage of the flight line and the mess in the hangars.
The reason they had to ask permission, rather than just doing what Captain Martin thought was the logical thing to do in the circumstances, was that some moron in CINCPAC (Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet) at Pearl Harbor had issued an order that aviation units that had lost their aircraft would immediately re-form and prepare to fight as infantry.
Captain Martin had no doubt that the order applied to VMF-211. After the Japanese had bombed and strafed Ewa, VMF-211 had zero flyable aircraft. And it was possible, if not very likely, that the Japanese would invade Oahu, in which case every man who could carry a rifle would indeed be needed as an infantryman.
But it was unlikely, in Captain Martin’s judgment, that infantrymen would be needed that afternoon. In the meantime, it just made good sense to salvage anything that could be salvaged. Captain Martin had been a Marine long enough to believe that replacement aircraft and spare parts—or, for that matter, replacement mess-kit spoons—would be issued to VMF-211 only after the Navy was sure that aircraft, spare parts, and mess-kit spoons were not needed anywhere else in the Navy.
It made much more sense to have Galloway and Big Steve try to salvage what they could than to have them forming as infantry. Even if he was absolutely wrong, and Japanese infantry were suddenly to appear, there was nothing Galloway and Oblensky could be taught about infantry in the next couple of days that they already didn’t know. They were technical sergeants, the second-highest enlisted grade in the Corps, and you didn’t get to be a tech sergeant in the Corps unless you knew all about small arms and small-unit infantry tactics.
And there was a question of morale, too. Big Steve, and especially Charley Galloway, felt guilty—more than guilty, ashamed—about what had happened to VMF-211. Their guilt was unreasonable, but Martin understood their feelings. For one thing, they hadn’t been at Ewa when it happened. And by the time they got to Ewa, it was all over. Really all over; even the fires were out and the wounded evacuated.
Captain Martin knew, unofficially, where Big Steve and Galloway were when the Japanese struck. So he didn’t have much trouble reading what was behind their eyes when they finally got back to Ewa, still accompanied by their nurse “friends,” and saw the destroyed aircraft and the blanket-wrapped bodies of their buddies on the stretchers.
If we had been here, we could have done something!
Captain Martin agreed with them. And, he further reasoned, they had to do something that had meaning. Practicing to repel boarders as infantrymen would be pure bullshit to good, experienced Marine tech sergeants.
So Captain Martin told them to go ahead, and to take as many men as they could reasonably use. If they ran into any static, they were to shoot the problem up to him.
What Technical Sergeants Galloway and Oblensky had not told Captain Martin was that they had already examined the carnage and decided that they could make at least one flyable F4F-4 by salvaging the necessary parts from partially destroyed aircraft and mating them with other not completely destroyed machines.
It was a practical, professional judgment. T/Sgt. Big Steve Oblensky had been an aircraft mechanic as far back as Santo Domingo and Nicaragua, and T/Sgt. Charley Galloway had been a mechanic before he’d gone to flight school.
By sunset, Captain Martin saw that they had found tenting somewhere, erected a makeshift, reasonably lightproof work bay, and moved one of the least damaged F4F-4s into it. Over the next week they cannibalized parts from other wrecks. Then there was the sound of air compressors and the bright flame of welding torches; and finally the sound of the twelve hundred horses of a Pratt & Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasp being run up.
But Captain Martin was surprised to discover what Big Steve and Charley had salvaged. By December 15, the engine he had heard run up was attached to a patched-together but complete and flyable F4F-4 Wildcat fuselage.
“That doesn’t exist, you know,” Captain Martin said. “All the aircraft on the station have been surveyed and found to be destroyed.”
“I want to take it out to the Saratoga,” Charley Galloway said.
“Sara’s in ’Dago, Galloway,” Captain Martin said. “What are you talking about?”
“Sara’s in Pearl. Sometime today, she’s going to put out to reinforce Wake. Sara, and the Astoria and the Minneapolis and the San Francisco. And the 4th Defense Battalion, on board the Tangier. They’re calling it Task Force 14.”
Martin hadn’t heard about that, at least in such detail, but there was no doubt that Galloway and Oblensky knew what they were talking about. Old-time sergeants had their own channels of information.
“That airplane can’t be flown until it’s been surveyed again and taken through an inspection.”
“Skipper, if we did that, the Navy would take it away from us,” Oblensky argued. “The squadron is down to two planes on Wake. They need that airplane.”
“If Sara is sailing today, there’s just no time to get permission for something like that.”
“So we do it without permission,” Galloway said. “What are they going to do if I show up over her? Order me home?”
“And what if you can’t find her?”
“I’ll find her,” Galloway said flatly.
“If you can’t?” Martin repeated.
“If I have to sit her down in the ocean, the squadron’s no worse off than it is now,” Galloway said, with a quiet passion. “Captain, we’ve got to do something.”
“I can’t give you permission to do something like that,” Martin said. “Christ, I would wind up in Portsmouth. It’s crazy, and you know it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Oblensky said, and a moment later Galloway parroted him.
“But, just as a matter of general information,” Captain Martin added, “I’ve got business at Pearl in the morning, and I won’t be able to get back here before 0930 or so.”
He had seen in their eyes that both had realized further argument was useless. And, more important, that they had just dismissed his objections as irrelevant. Charles Galloway was going to take that F4F-4 Wildcat off from Ewa in the morning, come hell or high water.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Good luck, Galloway,” Captain Martin said, and walked away.
(Four)
Above USS Saratoga (CV.3)
Task Force 14
0620 Hours 16 December 1941
A moment after Charley Galloway spotted the Saratoga five thousand feet below him, she began to turn into the wind. They had spotted the Wildcat, and her captain had issued the order, “Prepare to recover aircraft.”
By that time Sara knew he was coming. Ten minutes after Galloway took off from Ewa, the Navy was informed he was on the way, and was as
ked to relay that information to the Saratoga. A Navy captain, reflecting that a week before, such idiocy, such blatant disregard for standing orders and flight safety, would have seen those involved thrown out of the service—most likely via the Navy prison at Portsmouth—decided that this wasn’t a week ago, it was now, after the Pacific Fleet had suffered a disaster, and he ordered a coded message sent to the Saratoga to be on the lookout for a Marine F4F-4 believed attempting a rendezvous.
As the Saratoga turned, so did her screening force, the other ships of Task Force 14. They were the cruisers Minneapolis, Astoria, and San Francisco; nine destroyers; the Neches, a fleet oiler; and the USS Tangier, a seaplane tender pressed into service as a transport. They had put out from Pearl Harbor at 1600 the previous day.
Charley retarded his throttle, banked slightly, and pushed the nose of the Wildcat down.
He thought, That’s a bunch of ships and a lot of people making all that effort to recover just one man and one airplane.
He dropped his eyes to the fuel quantity gauge mounted on the left of the control panel and did the mental arithmetic. He had thirty-five minutes of fuel remaining, give or take a couple of minutes. It was now academic, of course, because he had found Task Force 14 on time and where he believed it would be, but he could not completely dismiss the thought that if he hadn’t found it, thirty minutes from now, give or take a few, he would have been floating around on a rubber raft all alone on the wide Pacific. Presuming he could have set it down on the water without killing himself.
By the time he was down to fifteen hundred feet over the smooth, dark blue Pacific, and headed straight for the Saratoga’s bow, she had completed her turn into the wind. Galloway looked down at her deck and saw that she was indeed ready to receive him. He could see faces looking up at him, and he could see that the cables had been raised. And when he glanced at her stern, he could see the Landing Control Officer, his paddles already in hand, waiting to guide him aboard.
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