His experience at Quantico with Marine Aviation, and especially with the enlisted men there, quickly showed him how wrong he was about that. Not only were the enlisted men a long-haired, slovenly bunch, who slouched around with their ties pulled down and their blouses unbuttoned, but their officers let them get away with it.
At the officers’ club in Quantico, he actually came as close to losing his temper in public as he ever had as a Marine. He sought out a Marine Aviation major to have a word with him, out of school, about a situation he found intolerable. He had come across a Marine lieutenant, an aviator, a staff sergeant, some sort of aircraft mechanic, and a PFC, whose function he did not really know, leaning on the wall of a hangar, laughing and joking together as if they were civilians in a pool hall.
When he relayed what he had seen to the Major, telling him that while he didn’t want to bring charges, he felt sure the Major would agree that sort of behavior was intolerable and had to be nipped in the bud, the Major actually said to him, “You have to understand, Neville, that Aviation is different.”
“We are all Marines,” Neville argued.
“Yeah, of course we are,” the Major replied. “But that doesn’t mean everybody has to walk around as if he has a broomstick shoved up his ass like you do.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing what I’m hearing,” Major Neville said indignantly.
The Aviation Major beckoned Major Neville closer with a wiggle of his index finger. Then he whispered in Neville’s ear, “Go fuck yourself, Fearless. Leave my people alone.” Then he leaned back on his barstool, grinned cordially, and asked, “Do we understand each other, Fearless?”
Neville realized at the time that reporting the incident to Colonel Hershberger, the Marine Aviation Major’s immediate superior, would have been fruitless. Those goddamned aviators stuck together. And, furthermore, it would have been necessary to report that “Fearless” business, too, a matter he didn’t want to get into.
The solution to the problem was to get rid of the Marine Aviation people. He went from Lakehurst (now that he was Director of Marine Corps Parachute Forces, he no longer had to justify official travel) to Quantico, where he asked for volunteers. One of them he knew: a handsome, charming lieutenant named R. B. Macklin, who shared his enthusiasm for Vertical Envelopment. Macklin had served with the 4th Marines in China and, for reasons Neville did not understand, had been wasting his talents as a mess officer at Marine Corps Schools. He also recruited six second lieutenants from a group about to graduate from Officer’s Basic Course.
He actually had eleven volunteer second lieutenants. But some sonofabitch from the 1st Division, to which the young officers were supposed to be assigned on graduation, complained to Personnel that the 1st Division had a more critical need for them than Neville did. And after a rather bitter discussion, he was allowed to take only six.
From Quantico he went to Parris Island and recruited from boots about to be graduated and from the cadre of drill instructors. He argued to them that if making Marines out of civilians was important, making Para-Marines out of ordinary Marines was even more so. And besides, once they became parachutists, it would increase their pay by fifty dollars a month. Over protests from both the 1st Division and Parris Island itself, he was allowed to take nine drill instructors and no more than three volunteers from each graduating platoon of recruits, up to a maximum of 1,200 men.
He then went to Fort Benning, Georgia, where he received permission for the nine ex-drill instructors and forty-one others (to be named when they became available) to go through the Army’s Jump School en route to the Marine Parachute Training School at Lakehurst.
As the drill instructors reported aboard Lakehurst from Fort Benning, the Marine Aviation parachutists would be returned, on a one-to-one basis, to Marine Aviation. He couldn’t get rid of all of them, of course; he had to keep some around—parachute riggers, for example. But by the first of the year, Major Neville’s broom would otherwise have swept a new and clean path through Lakehurst.
PFC Steven M. Koffler, USMC, of course knew nothing about any of this. All he knew was that he was being carried as AWOL when he returned from the “extended” three-day pass the Sergeant of the Guard had arranged with the First Sergeant for him to have when he had first reported aboard Lakehurst.
There is legally no such thing as an “extended” three-day pass. Absences of less than seventy-two hours are not chargeable as leave. Absences over seventy-two hours are. Consequently, someone who is absent over seventy-two hours and is not on leave orders (which will charge the time against his accrued leave) is absent without leave, or AWOL.
Steve Koffler, who did not understand this technicality, told his First Sergeant what had happened. The First Sergeant, who had had a number of “extended” three-day passes himself over the years, decided to buck the problem up to the Company Commander. So Steve Koffler repeated his story to the Company Commander, First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin.
Lieutenant Macklin, who was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, was very concerned with his professional reputation. He was a very senior lieutenant whose promotion to captain was long overdue.
Before the war, he had been stationed in Shanghai, China, with the 4th Marines. There, for reasons he had never been able to fathom fully, he had earned the dislike of the Regimental Intelligence Officer, a captain named Banning. Banning, for still more reasons Macklin simply couldn’t understand, was held in the high regard of the Regimental Commander, even though, in Macklin’s professional judgment, Banning’s performance of duty left a good deal to be desired, and his off-duty conduct was inexcusable.
Among other things, Banning maintained a White Russian mistress, and didn’t particularly care who knew it. If that wasn’t conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, Ed Macklin couldn’t imagine what would be.
Banning had entered the Corps from the Citadel, a civilian trade school, which of course was not the same thing as coming out of Annapolis. That probably explained some of the trouble such people had. It was well known that men from places like the Citadel, Norwich, and VMI were not only jealous of Annapolis graduates, but went out of their way to get them, whenever and however they could.
What happened in Shanghai was that Banning, demonstrating a clear lack of good judgment, had assigned a corporal—a corporal—to gather intelligence data on Japanese troop dispositions, while he was ostensibly serving as a truckdriver in a motor convoy under Macklin’s command.
Predictably, even though Macklin tried to help him, the Corporal was unable to perform his mission in the best interests of the command. Not only that, but he managed to touch off a confrontation with Chinese bandits that saw more than twenty Chinese killed.
Macklin wrote a report about the failure of the intelligence-gathering mission and the causes of the shooting incident. The report made clear that the whole thing could have been avoided if a low-ranking enlisted man had not been placed in a position he could not be expected to handle. Instead of accepting the report for what it was, namely constructive criticism, Banning wrote a wildly imaginative, wholly dishonest reply in which he placed on Macklin the blame for both the failure of the mission and the shooting incident.
It was difficult to believe, but the Colonel (who had gone into the Corps from Princeton, of all places!) took Banning’s side. And an efficiency report was placed in Macklin’s personnel file that questioned his judgment, his honesty, and his potential for command.
At the time, Macklin was so upset by this gross injustice that he did not demand, as was his right, a court-martial to determine the truth of the accusations against him. It was his intention to just leave the Corps. After the way he had been treated, he no longer could serve in good conscience.
But with war on the horizon, resignations were no longer being accepted. He was consequently assigned to the Marine Corps Base at Quantico, Virginia, as a mess officer at Marine Corps Schools. He was prepared, of course, to carry out to the best of his a
bility that and any other assigned duty.
Several months later, he was shocked but not especially surprised, when he later thought about it, to see Banning’s corporal from Shanghai enrolled as a candidate for a commission as an officer. The man had no education beyond high school, and was, literally, a murderer.
Corporal Kenneth R. “Killer” McCoy was so called because he had stabbed three Italian Marines to death on the streets of Shanghai. And here he was, about to become a Marine officer!
While he realized that he had no proof of any allegations he could make about McCoy, he was sure it was his obligation to the Corps to see that a man like that never became an officer. Macklin therefore had had a quiet word with several of the noncommissioned officers in the school. If McCoy could be terminated from the school for failure to meet its high standards, that would be the end of the matter. He would be no worse off than he had been; he would be assigned as a corporal.
It was then that Macklin learned just how much the Corps was infiltrated and corrupted by secret alliances, and how much power they had. Corporal McCoy must have gotten the word out that he was in trouble; for the next thing Macklin knew, a master gunnery sergeant named Stecker (he was the senior enlisted man at Quantico, and presumably had more important things to do) was nosing around the rifle range. And the day after that, Ed Macklin was standing in front of his Colonel, accused of improper interference with the officer candidate class.
“Find yourself a new home, Macklin,” the Colonel told him then. “Or I’ll find one for you!”
It was at that point that Macklin volunteered for and was accepted in the Marine Corps parachute program.
He and Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville saw eye-to-eye from the first. And after a period of time, he was able to tell Neville how unfairly he had been treated in Shanghai and at Quantico. Neville understood and was instantly sympathetic.
“You do a good job with my parachute school,” Neville said, “and I’ll write you an efficiency report that will take care of any problems you had in Shanghai. You should be a captain, and if you do a good job for me, you will be.”
Macklin knew all about “extended” three-day passes: he considered them an affront to his perception of good order and discipline. So armed, he concluded he had in PFC Koffler a fine opportunity to make his position on “extended” three-day passes known to his new command.
He announced to Koffler that he didn’t believe a word of his story; that no Marine NCO worthy of the name would tell a PFC not to worry about the seventy-two-hour limitation. He went on to explain that absence without leave was nearly as heinous an offense as cowardice in the face of the enemy, and that he really deserved to be brought before a court-martial.
But since the former First Sergeant and the Sergeant of the Guard had been transferred to Quantico, and since it would be inconvenient to bring them all the way back to Lakehurst to testify, and since Koffler was new to the Corps and probably didn’t realize the seriousness of his offense, Macklin told Koffler he would graciously give him a second chance.
He would thus be permitted to begin parachute training. But the first time he stepped half an inch out of line would prove he was unworthy of a second chance. In that event, the whole business would be brought up again, and he could expect a court-martial and confinement at the Portsmouth Naval Prison.
If he managed to get through the course, there would be a clean slate.
And, of course, it went without saying that he could forget any liberty or other privileges while he was in parachute training. He would, in fact, consider himself confined to barracks when off-duty.
(Three)
Marine Air Station
Quantico, Virginia
1030 Hours 13 February 1942
First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, and First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, marched into the office of Colonel Robert T. Hershberger and came to attention before his desk.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Ward barked, “Lieutenants Ward and Schneider reporting as ordered.”
Lieutenant Ward, a tall, brown-haired, loose-framed twenty-two-year-old, had come into Marine Aviation via Princeton, Officer Candidate School at Quantico, and Pensacola. Lieutenant Schneider, who was stocky, broad-shouldered, and wore his blond hair in a closely cropped crewcut, was also twenty-two, and had received his commission upon graduation from the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis.
With war on the horizon, and because he had the necessary credit hours, Lieutenant Ward had been permitted to graduate from Princeton (B.A., with a major in history) halfway through his senior year. He was graduated from Officer Candidate School at Quantico and commissioned five days before Lieutenant Schneider got to throw his midshipman’s cap into the air at Annapolis. He had similarly been promoted to first lieutenant five days before Schneider was given that promotion.
Although he was personally fond of Lieutenant Ward, Lieutenant Schneider regarded himself as a member of the professional officer corps of the Naval Service of the United States; he did not like being outranked by a goddamned reservist from Princeton.
There was an enlisted man sitting in Colonel Hershberger’s office. He stood up when the two lieutenants marched in. Colonel Hershberger promptly introduced him.
“This is Sergeant Galloway.”
Sergeant Galloway was wearing utilities. Both Ward and Schneider had seen him on the flight line, working as a mechanic. They had also heard scuttlebutt that the sergeant had stolen an airplane somewhere and taken it for a joy ride, and had been sent to Quantico to await court-martial.
Schneider nodded uncomfortably at the Sergeant. Because Lieutenant Ward was a reservist and couldn’t be expected to know the subtleties of dealing with an enlisted man over his ass in trouble, he graciously offered Galloway his hand.
“You will be taking our R4D to Lakehurst tomorrow,” Colonel Hershberger said to them. “Headquarters USMC has arranged for Life magazine to do a story on the Marine parachutists being trained there. This operation, I am reliably informed, has the approval of the highest authority within the Marine Corps. In other words, if you screw up, you will embarrass not only yourselves, but me, Brigadier General McInerney, Marine Aviation, and the Corps itself as well. I want you to understand that very clearly.”
“Yes, Sir,” they parroted.
“Sergeant Galloway has kindly offered to go along on this little jaunt,” Colonel Hershberger said, smiling wryly, “and I have accepted his offer.”
Both young officers looked between the Colonel and the Sergeant with mingled curiosity and surprise.
“Sergeant Galloway will function as pilot-in-command,” Hershberger said, startling them, “and the reason I called you all in here is to make sure you know what that means.”
“Sir,” Lieutenant Schneider said, “I’m a little confused.”
“I thought you might be, Mr. Schneider,” Hershberger said. “So I will explain it to you. What it means is that senior authority—in this case, me—has reviewed the qualifications of the pilots available to fly this mission and has chosen the best-qualified pilot—in this case, Sergeant Galloway—to serve as pilot-in-command. And that means just what it says. He is in command of the aircraft and is responsible for the accomplishment of the mission. So long as it has to do with the airplane and the mission, he speaks with my authority. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Schneider replied.
Colonel Hershberger looked at Lieutenant Ward until it occurred to Ward that a response was expected from him.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
Hershberger went on, apparently not concerned that Ward had not appended the expected “Sir” to his answer, “If, in Sergeant Galloway’s judgment, there is time and opportunity on this mission, he can give you instruction in the operation of the aircraft and on dropping parachutists from it. Galloway is both an R4D IP and a graduate of the Army Air Corps course on parachutist dropping. He has also been flying since you two were in high school. Any questions so far?”
“No, Sir.”
“On the other hand, we all of course are in the Marine Corps, and are therefore subject to all the rules and the customs of the Service. Sergeant Galloway is required to treat you with the military courtesy to which your rank entitles you. The flip side of the coin is that as officers you are as responsible for Sergeant Galloway’s well-being—his rations and quarters, so to speak—and his conduct, as you would be for any enlisted man you found yourselves associated with on a mission. In other words, if it should come to my attention that Sergeant Galloway got drunk and punched out a shore patrolman while you are all off doing this public-relations nonsense, it will be your ass as well as his. Questions?”
“No, Sir,” Lieutenants Ward and Schneider said in unison.
“Charley?”
“Colonel, what I’ve been thinking of doing is shooting some touch-and-goes here—I haven’t flown one of these for a while—and then fueling up and going up there this afternoon.”
“Sure, why not? Just don’t bend the goddamned bird.”
“Sirs,” Sergeant Galloway said, looking at Lieutenants Ward and Schneider, “would it be possible for you to pack your gear and meet me at Base Ops in an hour?”
“Certainly,” Lieutenant Schneider said.
“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Ward said, which earned him a look of amazed disgust from Lieutenant Schneider and a chuckle from Colonel Hershberger.
“Charley,” Colonel Hershberger said, “am I going to have to remind you that you’re on thin ice?”
“No, Sir, you don’t,” Sergeant Galloway said.
“That will be all, gentlemen, thank you,” Colonel Hershberger said, dismissing them.
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