Counterattack

by W. E. B Griffin

  While they packed their bags in the bachelor officers’ quarters, and as they drove to Base Operations, Lieutenants Ward and Schneider discussed Sergeant Galloway and the situation they found themselves in.

  Lieutenant Schneider could not restrain himself from reminding Lieutenant Ward that officers should not say “Yes, Sir” to sergeants. After that, they considered all the possibilities of the scuttlebutt concerning Sergeant Galloway, the significance of Colonel Hershberger’s remarks about Sergeant Galloway being on thin ice, and the Colonel’s pronouncement that if Sergeant Galloway got drunk and punched out a shore patrolman, they would be held responsible.

  Once they arrived at Base Operations, however, Sergeant Galloway’s behavior and appearance made them a little less nervous. He was wearing green trousers and a fur-collared leather flight jacket when they joined him. There were golden, somewhat wear-faded, Naval Aviator’s wings just like their own stamped on a leather patch on the breast of the flight jacket; and the real thing was pinned to the breast of his uniform blouse, which he carried on a hanger. The hash marks on the blouse cuff, signifying eight years of Marine service, were also reassuring.

  And there was something about his calm competency as he laid out the flight plan, went through the weather briefing, and dealt with the crew chief and the preflight inspection of the aircraft that reminded them of their IPs at Pensacola. Since flight instructors, like drill sergeants, are always remembered by their former students as individuals of vast knowledge and awesome competence, both Ward and Schneider were able to tell themselves that whatever else Sergeant Galloway was, he was an extraordinarily qualified aviator. And this too was reassuring.

  They even found his little joke with the crew chief, himself a technical sergeant, somehow comforting: “Well, let’s wind up the rubber bands and see if we can get this thing in the air.”

  Galloway climbed up the door ladder and walked through the fuselage to the cockpit. Then he turned and found Lieutenant Ward behind him. He pointed to the copilot’s seat.

  “Why don’t you crawl in there, Lieutenant?” he suggested. But it was an order, and both lieutenants knew it. Sergeant Galloway was now functioning as pilot-in-command.

  Lieutenant Schneider stood between the seats and watched critically as Galloway went through the checklist and fired up the engines. He could find nothing to fault, even when he was summarily ordered to the cabin: “You can go strap yourself in now, Lieutenant.”

  That was simply following established safety regulations, Schneider told himself, actually a little chagrined that he had to be told by a sergeant to do something he knew he should do, and hadn’t done.

  Galloway then took the R4D off, got in the pattern, and shot four touch-and-go landings. All of them, Schneider was forced to admit, were as smooth as glass. Then he shot another five. The first of these was pretty rough and sloppy, Schneider was pleased to judge—until it occurred to him that Ward, not Sergeant Galloway, was now at the controls.

  And then Ward came into the cabin, sat down beside Schneider, and said, “Your turn.”

  When Schneider went to the cockpit, Galloway was in the copilot’s seat and obviously functioning as an IP. Schneider made five touch-and-goes, more than a little annoyed that not only was his performance being judged by this damned sergeant, but that he had found it wanting.

  “Go around again,” Galloway ordered, shoving the throttles forward. “Try to set up your approach so that you touch down closer to the threshold.”

  Dave Schneider’s next landing was better, but still apparently not up to Sergeant Galloway’s standard. He told him to go around again.

  They refueled then, rechecked the weather, and got back into the R4D. This time Galloway told Dave Schneider to get into the copilot’s seat. Schneider, chagrined, correctly interpreted this to mean that Galloway thought he required more of his instructional attention than Ward did.

  While they were climbing to their ten-thousand-foot cruising altitude, Galloway summoned Ward from the cabin and installed him on the jump seat in the cockpit. When Ward had his headset on, Galloway explained that they were going to fly the airways, first to the east of Washington, about twenty-five miles from Quantico, and then over Baltimore, and then Wilmington, Delaware, 120 miles and forty-five minutes from their departure point.

  Galloway didn’t touch the controls, letting Schneider fly and make the en route radio calls. When nothing was happening, he delivered, conversationally, what Lieutenant Ward genuinely believed was a truly learned discourse on the peculiarities of R4D aircraft and instrument flight techniques generally.

  The sun had come out, and the day was clear, and the flight very pleasant.

  And then Sergeant Galloway’s voice came over the earphones.

  “There’s a little roughness in the port engine,” he announced.

  Neither Ward nor Schneider had detected any roughness in the port engine. Both quickly scanned the instrument panel for any signs of mechanical irregularity, but found none. Lieutenant Ward was perfectly willing to defer to Sergeant Galloway’s expert judgment, but Lieutenant Schneider was not.

  “Sergeant,” Lieutenant Schneider said, “I don’t hear anything in either of the engines.”

  “You really don’t have all that much time in one of these things, do you, Lieutenant?” Galloway asked tolerantly.

  Schneider’s face flushed.

  “I think we better sit down and have a look at it,” Galloway went on. He picked up the microphone: “Philadelphia, this is Marine Two-Six-Two. I am diverting to Willow Grove at this time. Estimate Willow Grove in five minutes. Please close me out to Willow Grove.”

  The Willow Grove Naval Air Station, just north of Philadelphia, was not far from Lieutenant Ward’s home in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania, an affluent Philadelphia suburb. He looked out the cockpit window and saw that they were approaching South Philadelphia. He could see the Navy Yard.

  “Marine Two-Six-Two, Philadelphia,” the Philadelphia controller replied, “understand diverting to Willow Grove at this time, ETA five minutes.”

  “Roger, Philadelphia, thank you,” Galloway said, and then switched to the Willow Grove tower’s radio frequency: “Willow Grove, Marine Two-Six-Two, an R4D aircraft, fifteen miles south of your station. Approach and landing, please.”

  Curiosity overwhelmed Lieutenant Dave Schneider.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I told you. The port engine sounds a little rough. I’m going to sit down and have a look at it.”

  “I don’t hear anything wrong with the engine,” Schneider said.

  “I could be wrong, of course,” Sergeant Galloway said. “But you can never be too careful, can you?”

  “Willow Grove clears Marine Two-Six-Two as number one to land on Runway One-Niner. The winds are from the north at five miles. Visibility and ceiling unlimited. The time is ten past the hour.”

  “Roger, Willow Grove, we have the field in sight,” Galloway said, and then added, to Schneider, “I’ve got it, Lieutenant.”

  Schneider took his hands and feet off the controls, turning control over to Galloway, who began to make the descent.

  “We probably could have made it into Lakehurst,” Schneider said. “It’s only forty miles, maybe not that far.”

  “That’s very good, Lieutenant,” Galloway said dryly. “A copilot should always be prepared to give the pilot their location, and the location of an alternative airfield.”

  Schneider had the feeling Galloway was making a fool of him, but he couldn’t figure out exactly how.

  “I really would like to know why are we landing here,” Lieutenant Schneider said.

  “Lieutenant, do you know what they have at Lakehurst in February?” Galloway asked. “One of the world’s biggest buildings, maybe a dozen blimps, and a lot of snow. Period.” Then he picked up the microphone and said, “Willow Grove, Marine Two-Six-Two turning on final,” and began to line the airplane up with the runway.

  Lieutenant Schneider was now s
ure what Sergeant Galloway was up to. It fit in with everything he had heard. There was nothing wrong with the engine. Galloway did not want to go to Lakehurst because there was nothing, in his own words, at Lakehurst in February but one of the world’s largest buildings, a dozen blimps, and a lot of snow. Period.

  What was outside of Willow Grove Naval Air Station was the city of Philadelphia. And in Philadelphia there were a lot of bars where Galloway could get drunk and punch out a shore patrolman, for which, Colonel Hershberger had made it absolutely clear, they would be held responsible.

  Schneider motioned to Ward to come close, covered his mouth with his hand, and said, “We have to talk.”

  Galloway greased the R4D onto the runway, then reached for the microphone again.

  “Willow Grove, Two-Six-Two. We’ll need some gas, and I’d like a mechanic to check out one of my engines, please.”

  “Two-Six-Two, take taxiway C, and taxi to the transient area by the tower. A fuel truck and a maintenance crew will meet you there.”

  “Thank you very much, Willow Grove.”

  “We flew right over my house,” Lieutenant Ward said.

  “We did?” Galloway said.

  “I live in Jenkintown,” Lieutenant Ward said.

  “Well, I guess that means you can go home for supper, huh?” Galloway said.

  “Sergeant Galloway,” Lieutenant Schneider said, with what he hoped was the appropriate combination of courtesy and firmness, “if the engine checks out all right, I think we should go on to Lakehurst.”

  “Jesus, Dave, why?” Lieutenant Ward said. “I don’t live fifteen minutes from here.”

  Schneider gave him a look of mingled disgust and fury.

  “In fact, Sergeant,” Schneider said, “I’m afraid I must insist that we do so.”

  “You don’t have the right to insist on anything, Dave,” Lieutenant Ward said furiously. “You heard what Colonel Hershberger said. So far as the airplane and the mission are concerned, Sergeant Galloway’s in charge.”

  “Goddamn it! Can’t you see what’s going on?” Schneider flared. “He doesn’t want to go to Lakehurst! You heard what he said about Lakehurst! What he wants is a night on the town. That’s why he landed here. There’s nothing wrong with that engine.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Sergeant Galloway said innocently.

  “Then we’re going to fly on to Lakehurst?” Schneider snapped.

  “If we could, and I say if, then Lieutenant Ward wouldn’t get to go home,” Galloway said reasonably.

  “So what?” Schneider snapped.

  “That engine sounded a little rough to me, too,” Lieutenant Ward said solemnly. “I think we better have it checked out pretty carefully.”

  The two Navy mechanics who came out to the R4D were accompanied by a gold-stripe Chief Naval Aviation Pilot. He saluted Lieutenants Ward and Schneider and shook hands cordially with Sergeant Galloway.

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “The port engine sounded a little rough,” Galloway said. “I thought it best to sit down and have an expert look at it.”

  “Good thinking!” the Chief said. “I’ll have a look at it myself.”

  That sonofabitch did everything but wink at Galloway, Dave Schneider thought furiously. He knows exactly what’s going on! Two goddamn birds of a feather flocking together!

  The mechanics backed their pickup truck under the wing and started to remove nacelle panels.

  Schneider took Ward’s arm and led him out of hearing.

  “You know damned well what’s going on here, Jim,” he said. “Galloway wants a night on the town. There’s nothing wrong with that engine.”

  “I’d like to go home,” Ward said.

  “And let him go out on the town? You heard Hershberger. We’re responsible for his conduct.”

  “We can take him with us,” Ward said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We all go to my house. We have dinner, a couple of drinks, and then we all come back here together. I’d like to see my girl. And I’m sure she has a friend.”

  “We can’t go out in public with him. To a restaurant or a bar, you know that. Officers cannot socialize with enlisted men.”

  “So we don’t go to a restaurant or a bar,” Ward said. “We go to my house. I repeat, we don’t let him out of our sight.”

  Dave Schneider grunted.

  The Chief Aviation Pilot, surprising Lieutenant Dave Schneider not at all, returned from his mechanic’s initial inspection of the port engine to report that they could find nothing wrong with it, but that in the interests of safety, he thought it would be a good idea if they drained the engine oil and had a look at it. That way they would know for sure. That would take an hour or an hour and a half; so why didn’t they just RON here and take off first thing in the morning? The initials were short for “remain overnight.”

  The Chief said he could put Sergeant Galloway up in the Chief’s quarters, and there was room in the transient BOQ for the officers.

  “That’s very kind of you, Chief,” Lieutenant Schneider said, “but Lieutenant Ward lives near here, and we’ll just go to his house. We’ll leave you the number, and when you find out about the engine, you call me. All right?”

  The Chief Aviation Pilot shrugged and said, “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Tough luck, Chief! You did your best for Sergeant Galloway, but I outsmarted you.

  Thirty minutes later, a wooden-sided Mercury station wagon with a VISITOR placard stuck against the dashboard pulled up in front of Base Operations.

  “That your mother?” Dave Schneider asked.

  Ward looked.

  “No. It’s my Aunt Caroline,” he said, and pushed open the door.

  Caroline Ward McNamara, who was thirty-two, blond, long-haired, long-legged, and three months divorced, kissed her nephew and shook hands with Lieutenant Schneider and Sergeant Galloway. Charley Galloway thought that Mrs. McNamara was as beautiful and elegant as a movie star. Like Greer Garson, except with long blond hair.

  “I was at the house,” she said. “Your mother wanted to go to the Acme to get steaks, so I volunteered to come get you.”

  Any woman that beautiful has to be married. Or engaged. And even if she wasn’t, she’s a lady. She wouldn’t want to have anything to do with a Marine Sergeant.

  Lieutenant Schneider and Sergeant Galloway got in the backseat of the Mercury, and Jim Ward got in front beside his aunt.

  “Which airplane is yours?” she asked.

  “The third one,” Jim Ward said. “The one with ‘Marines’ painted on the fuselage.”

  “I’m impressed,” Aunt Caroline said. “I didn’t know you were flying something that large.”

  “I’m just learning how, to tell you the truth,” Jim Ward said.

  “And you’re the teacher, Lieutenant Schneider? Is that it? Is Jim a good student?”

  “Actually, Caroline,” Jim Ward said, “Sergeant Galloway is the IP. Instructor Pilot.”

  Aunt Caroline shifted her head so that she could see Sergeant Galloway in the rearview mirror.

  Their eyes met. Charley Galloway felt his heart jump.

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?” she asked.

  “No, Ma’am,” Charley Galloway said.

  The hell it isn’t, Aunt Caroline thought. And that isn’t all that’s interesting about that young man!

  “Have you been flying airplanes like that long, Sergeant?”

  “No, Ma’am,” Charley Galloway said.

  “What do you ordinarily fly? And stop calling me ‘Ma’am,’ it makes me feel ancient.”

  “Until recently, I was a fighter pilot,” Charley Galloway said. “I usually fly Wildcats.”

  “I didn’t know that, Charley,” Jim Ward said, impressed. Aunt Caroline picked up on that, too.

  “Why aren’t you flying them now? And for that matter, what’s a Wildcat?”

  “The hottest fighter in the world,” Jim Ward said firmly, almost with awe.

&nb
sp; “We lost all of our planes on December seventh,” Charley Galloway said. “At Pearl.”

  “You were at Pearl Harbor?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “If we’re going to be friends, Charley,” Aunt Caroline said, “you’re really going to have to stop calling me ‘Ma’am.’”

  How the hell could we possibly get to be friends?

  Charley saw, in the rearview mirror, that Aunt Caroline was smiling at him. He had a momentary, insane thought: She’s smiling at me the same way Ensign Mary Agnes O’Malley smiled at me just before she grabbed my joint in the Ford on the way up to the cabin in the mountains.

  Immediately, he had more sensible thoughts:

  Jesus Christ, I’m letting my imagination run wild. Lieutenant Ward’s Aunt Caroline is a lady, for Christ’s sake! Probably a married one. Not a slut in a Navy uniform. Ward’s Aunt Caroline is not about to grab the joint of a Marine sergeant! And you better watch your fucking step, pal. You’re out of your depth around these people. Schneider, that starchy little prick, would love to tell Hershberger I got out of line here. And Hershberger told me what General McInerney said would happen to me if I so much as farted and embarrassed Marine Aviation. You know the rules. It’s always been the same choice, fucking or flying. They’re giving you a second chance to fly. Don’t fuck it up!

  Charley Galloway smiled politely at Ward’s Aunt Caroline’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  Lieutenant Ward laughed.

  Charley took the chance. He winked at her reflection in the mirror.

  Aunt Caroline stuck her tongue out at Charley’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Charley’s heart jumped again.

  (Four)

  2307 Watterson Avenue

  Jenkintown, Pennsylvania

  2140 Hours 13 February 1942

  Because Lieutenant Jim Ward’s mother and dad really went out of their way to make Sergeant Charley Galloway feel welcome and comfortable, they severely undermined his determination to stay off the sauce in the process. Mr. Ward, who’d been in the Army in World War I, made a pitcher of martinis soon after they came in the house. Charley didn’t like martinis, but he had two—the first to be polite and the second because he saw that Lieutenant Schneider didn’t like to see him drinking at all.