"You still plugged in back there, Nesbit?"
"Yes, Sir."
"OK. Now, since the weather isn’t going to be a problem, we will discuss what is going to probably be the problem at Lakehurst. His name is Neville. He’s a lieutenant colonel. Just made it. Starchy sonofabitch."
Dave Schneider was about to speak, to point out to Galloway that, aircraft commander or not, he was a sergeant, and sergeants did not refer to a Marine Corps lieutenant colonel as a "starchy sonofabitch." But then Galloway went on, "Colonel Hershberger warned me about him and gave me the game plan. If he proposes something idiotic for us to do-this is a public-relations job, and there’s no telling what nutty ideas they’ll come up with-I will take the heat for refusing to do it. All you have to say to him is that Hershberger told you I’m the aircraft commander, and the only person who can change that is Hershberger himself. Clear?"
"What makes you so sure, Sergeant Galloway," Schneider asked icily, "that Colonel Neville will propose something . . . idiotic, as you put it?"
"Well, for one thing, they call him ‘Fearless,’" Galloway said. "What does that tell you? And for another, Colonel Hershberger wouldn’t have given me the game plan if he didn’t think it would be necessary. He’s dealt with this sonofabitch before."
"I am deeply offended, Galloway, by your repeated references to a senior officer as a sonofabitch!" Dave Schneider said icily.
"Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dave!" Jim Ward said, turning to look at Schneider in disgust.
Galloway met Schneider’s eyes.
"Lieutenant," he said politely, "you want to go back in the cabin now and strap yourself in? It’s getting a little turbulent, and I wouldn’t want you to bang your head on a bulkhead or anything."
"This conversation is not over, Sergeant," Dave Schneider said before he took off the headset and went back in the cabin.
Chapter Seven
(One)
Lakehurst Naval Air Station
Lakehurst, New Jersey
0515 Hours 14 February 1942
Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville had driven up from Washington in his Auto-Union roadster the day before. He would have preferred to take the train, which was quicker and more comfortable, but he might need the car at Lakehurst because of the press people. It even entered his mind that the press people might want a photograph of him in his Auto-Union. Fast sports cars and parachutists, that sort of thing.
Actually he had hoped to travel to Lakehurst in the R4D from Quantico; it had even occurred to him that he might arrive at Lakehurst by jumping from the R4D just before it landed, to give the press people a sample of what they could expect. But when he’d asked Hershberger whether the R4D could pick him up at Anacostia, Hershberger told him it was already en route to Lakehurst.
When he got to Lakehurst, of course, the airplane wasn’t there. And it was only after frantic telephone calls to Colonel Hershberger and Willow Grove that he was able to put his worries about that to rest. Hershberger told him the plane had made a precautionary landing at Willow Grove. And then Willow Grove told him there was nothing wrong with the airplane, and that it was on The Board for an 0430 takeoff.
It was vital for the R4D to arrive. It had to be a Marine airplane doing the dropping for the press people’s cameras- nota Navy airplane. Neville would not lie about it, but he had no intention of volunteering the information to the press people that Navy pilots, flying Navy R4Ds, actually had done all the dropping of Marine parachutists at Lakehurst so far.
Colonel Neville was convinced that if things went well today, their future would be secure-presuming, of course, that it all resulted in Life magazine doing one of their spreads on Marine parachutists, and that the spread showed Marine parachutists in a good light. On the other hand, if things did not go well, it could be a fatal blow to Vertical Envelopment within the Marine Corps.
Consequently, a lot of thought and planning and effort had gone into preparing everything and everybody for the visit of the Life photojournalists to Lakehurst. The public-relations people at Marine Corps headquarters had been enthusiastic and cooperative, which was more than could be said for some other people in the head shed.
The Deputy Chief of Public Relations, Headquarters USMC, a full colonel named Lenihan, had told him that he had assigned the task of publicizing the demonstration jump to Major Jake Dillon, who would head a team of nine public-relations specialists.
"You’ve heard of Dillon, of course, haven’t you, Neville?" Colonel Lenihan asked.
Neville searched his mind, but could come up with no recollection of a major or a captain named Dillon.
"No, Sir, I don’t think so."
"Metro-Magnum Pictures," Colonel Lenihan said, significantly.
Metro-Magnum Pictures was a major Hollywood studio.
"Sir?"
"Dillon was Chief of Publicity for Metro-Magnum," Colonel Lenihan said. "He just came on active duty. Amazing fellow. Knows all the movie stars. He introduced me to Bette Davis at the Willard Hotel last night."
"Is that so?" Neville replied. He wondered if this Major Dillon could arrange for a movie star to be present at Lakehurst. Bringing somebody like Bette Davis there, or even Lana Turner or Betty Grable, would get his Para-Marines in the newsreels.
Major Dillon’s public relations team had come to Lakehurst two days before. The team had two staff cars, two station wagons, and a jeep. The tiny vehicle, officially called a "Truck, 1/4 Ton 4X4," had just entered the service. Neville had seen one in the newsreels-it was actually flying through the air-but this was the first one he had ever seen in person. The team also included four photographers, two still and two motion-picture.
When Colonel Neville mentioned his notion of asking some beauty like Lana Turner to the demonstration, Major Dillon, a stocky, crewcut man in his middle thirties, explained that he didn’t think that publicizing the Marine parachutists was the sort of job that required teats and thighs to get good coverage.
"I really don’t want to sound as if I’m trying to tell you your job-" Colonel Neville began, convinced that the presence of a gorgeous star would insure a public-relations coup.
"Then don’t," Dillon interrupted.
"I’m not sure I like your tone of voice, Major."
"Colonel, I think you’re going to have to trust me to do my job. If you don’t like the way I’m doing things, you get on the horn and tell Colonel Lenihan. He’s the only one I take orders from."
Franklin G. Neville considered the situation quickly, and forced a smile.
"No offense, Major. I was just trying to be helpful."
Later, Major Dillon explained to Neville that the still photographers would back up the Life photographers; they’d make the pictures they took available to the magazine in case it missed something. After a seven-day "embargo," the pictures Life didn’t want would be made available to the press generally.
The motion-picture film would be taken to Washington, processed, reviewed, and after the same seven-day embargo to preserve Life’s exclusivity, it would be made available to the various newsreel companies.
Dillon brought with him three Marine "correspondents," two corporals and a sergeant, supervised by a lieutenant. They had prepared a "press background packet," which included a history of parachuting generally, and of Marine parachuting in some detail. There were short biographies of Lieutenant Colonel Neville and Lieutenant Macklin, together with eight-by-ten-inch official glossy photographs of them.
All of this served to impress Colonel Neville with Major Dillon’s expertise. It even caused Neville to realize that he would best forget the little flare-up he’d had with the Major over inviting a Hollywood star to the demonstration.
Besides, Colonel Neville was feeling pretty pleased with himself in general. Everything was going well. And everything at the school itself was shipshape. In a remarkably short time, the ex-Parris Island drill instructors had done marvels in establishing standards of discipline and dress that were appropriate for the men Nevill
e considered "the elite of the elite." In Neville’s view, if Marines were by definition disciplined military men, Marine parachutists had to strive to reach even higher standards.
The Major, of course, wanted to go a bit further in helping the press than Major Dillon was prepared to go; and the Major had to caution him that in his experience, it was possible to "direct" the attention of the press, especially high-class places like Life, only so far.
"If they begin to feel they’re getting a snow job," Major Dillon said, "they start looking for what’s hidden under the rocks. The best way to deal with them is to make yourself useful but not pushy, and to somehow convince them that what you want publicized is something they discovered themselves."
Major Dillon, his lieutenant, and Lieutenant Macklin were going to meet the press people at the Lakehurst gate when they drove over from New York City. Colonel Neville decided that it would be beneath his dignity as Director of Marine Corps Parachuting to be at the gate himself.
The press people would then be taken to his office, where coffee and doughnuts would be served. Following that, Lieutenant Macklin would brief them. Neville attended a rehearsal briefing, made a few small suggestions, and then approved it.
The press would then be taken on a tour of the school’s facilities. The tour would demonstrate how the school was turning Marines into Para-Marines. Neville intended to use that term, even though he had specific directions not to do so. He thought it was honestly descriptive and had a certain flair to it-and he was convinced that once it had appeared in Life, it would become part of the language.
Then there would be luncheon in the enlisted men’s mess.
Neville would have preferred to feed the press people in the officers’ club, but Major Jake Dillon argued that the press liked to eat with the troops. In the event, that really posed no problems. Lieutenant Macklin directed the mess sergeant to move up the stuffed-pork chop, mashed-potato, and apple-cobbler supper to the noon meal. The troops could eat the bologna sandwiches originally scheduled for the noon meal at supper, after the press people had gone.
At 1245 hours, the press would be taken to the far side of the airfield to witness their first parachute drop. Chairs, a table, and a coffee thermos would be set up for their convenience. The Marine R4D from Quantico would have been dropping parachutists, four times, during the morning. It would probably have been better to show the press people a jump before they toured the school facilities, so that then they’d know the object of the whole thing; but Neville had insisted on scheduling the demonstration drop for 1245, so that the R4D crew would have a chance to practice.
The drop was all-important. If that didn’t go well, nothing else would matter.
Actually, there was to be more than one drop for the press. At 1245, the first drop would show them how it was done. Then the R4D would land, taxi up to the press people, and take on another load of parachutists there. That would give the press people the opportunity to see how quickly and efficiently that was done.
Then the plane would take off, wait for the press people to move over to the actual drop zone, and then drop the second load of parachutists. This would give the press people a chance to see the parachutists landing.
Neville had earlier persuaded the Commanding Officer of Willow Grove Naval Air Station to let him have a pair of SJ6 Texans, which were low-winged, single-engined, two-seat trainers. While the R4D landed to take on still another load of parachutists, one of the two Texans would have taxied to where it could take aboard a Life photographer. The second Texan, carrying a Marine photographer equipped with a motion-picture camera, would by then already be in the air.
He would capture on film the Para-Marines exiting the door of the R4D. Individual prints made from that motion-picture film would be offered to Life, if they wanted them. After that the film would be made available to the newsreel companies.
So far as Lieutenant Colonel Neville could see, he and Lieutenant Macklin had covered all the bases.
When, as he asked them to, the Lakehurst Control Tower telephoned to report that a Marine R4D out of Willow Grove had just requested landing permission, he felt the situation was well in hand.
And then things, of course, promptly began to go wrong.
He went out to watch the R4D land. He liked the sight of it, gleaming in the sun of the crisp winter day, withmarines lettered along the fuselage. He wondered, for the future-it was too late to do anything about it now, of course-if he could arrange to have an aircraft letteredpara-marines. But then, as the aircraft turned off the runway and started to taxi toward the dirigible hangar, he saw that the port engine nacelle and the wing behind it were filthy. Absolutely filthy!
He started walking toward the spot where Lieutenant Macklin had marked out the parking space for the aircraft. He reached it moments after the airplane arrived, and he waited while the pilot turned it around. In order to do that, the pilot had to gun the starboard engine; when he did so, the prop blast caught some snow in its path and blew it all over Neville.
It wasn’t clean snow; it was mixed with dirt and parking-area debris, and it soiled Lieutenant Colonel Neville’s fresh green uniform. He was not in a very good mood when he stood by the door of the aircraft, waiting for the door to open.
A sergeant in coveralls looked at him curiously, and then dropped a ladder from holes in the bottom of the doorframe. Only then did he finally remember rudimentary military courtesy. Still not wearing suitable headgear, he saluted and said, "Good morning, Colonel."
"Inform the pilot that I would like to see him. I’m Colonel Neville."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the crew chief said, and disappeared inside the aircraft.
In a moment, a good-looking young man appeared; he was wearing a fur-collared jacket with Naval Aviator’s wings. Hat-less. But he at least looked like a Marine, Neville thought, and acted like one.
"Good morning, Sir," he said, saluting crisply; he held it until Neville returned it. Only then did he start climbing down the ladder. "Are you Colonel Neville, Sir?" Neville nodded. "I was told to report to you, Sir."
"Your airplane is dirty," Colonel Neville said.
"Sir?"
"The port engine nacelle and wing. They’re filthy!"
The pilot looked surprised and went to look.
"Don’t you have a uniform cap?" Neville called after him.
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir," the pilot said. He took a fore-and-aft cap from the pocket of his leather jacket and put it on.
An enlisted man’s cap! That goddamned Hershberger knows how important a mission this is to me and to the Para-Marines, and he’s sent me a goddamned Flying Sergeant!
Neville walked to the wing.
"Sir, they drained the oil at Willow Grove. I guess they spilled a little, and it picked up crud from the taxiway and runway," Charley Galloway said.
"Well, have it cleaned up," Neville said. "We don’t want Life’s readers to think the Marine Corps tolerates filthy aircraft, do we?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Tell me, Sergeant, does Colonel Hershberger routinely send noncoms on missions of this importance?"
"I don’t think, Sir, that the Colonel had any qualified officer pilots to send."
That’s so much bullshit and we both know it.Goddamn Hershberger!
"Colonel, I have two lieutenants on board," Galloway said, adding, "pilots, I mean."
"Then where are they? I told your crew chief I wanted to speak to the pilot."
"Sir, I’m pilot-in-command."
"How can that be, Sergeant?" Neville said, making what he recognized to be a valiant effort not to jump all over the sergeant. He was a sergeant; he was just doing what he was told. "With officer pilots, how can you be in command?"
"Colonel Hershberger set it up that way, Sir."
"Would you tell the officers I would like a word with them, Sergeant, please?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Lieutenants Ward and Schneider were standing on the ground beside the rear door when Charley G
alloway went to fetch them.
"Colonel Neville would like to see you, gentlemen," he said loudly, and added softly, "Watch yourselves. He’s got his balls in an uproar about something."
Lieutenant Schneider gave Galloway a withering look, and then saluted Colonel Neville as he appeared.
"Which of you is senior?" Neville asked.
"I believe I am, Sir," Jim Ward said.
"Jack," Galloway said to the crew chief, "will you get the crud off the port nacelle and wing?"
"What the hell for?" the crew chief replied. "The minute we start to taxi through this shit, it’ll get dirty again."
"Do me a favor, Jack," Galloway said, nodding his head toward Neville. "Do what you can to clean it up."
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