He went to PFC Hastings's desk and left him a note. "1205 I went to pick up some replacements at NATS. CMG."
Then he went out of the Quonset hut, closed the padlock, and walked to his Ford. Regulations required that officers leaving installations be in the properly appointed uniform of the day. An exception was made only for officers who were actually engaged in preparing for flight duty, or who were returning from such duty; these men were permitted to wear uniforms appropriate for such duty. Captain Charles M. Galloway decided that he met the criteria for exception. He had been flying, and he was preparing to fly again.
He took his fore-and-aft cap from the knee pocket of his flight suit, put it on, and then slipped his arms into the leather flight jacket and zipped that up. Then he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove off.
The Marine MP on duty outside the Navy Air Transport Service terminal eyed Galloway suspiciously as he pulled up in the yellow Ford.
"I've got two warm bodies inside," Galloway said when the MP walked up to the car. "Can I leave this here a minute?"
"No, Sir," the MP said. "That would be against regulations. But on the other hand, if I checked around inside, which would take me about two minutes, I wouldn't see it, would I?"
"Thanks," Charley said, and got out of the car.
He smiled when he saw the two warm bodies, the intrepid birdmen fresh from the States, sitting on wooden benches inside the terminal. He knew both of them.
And when they saw him, they both stood up. First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, smiled and waved. First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, just about came to attention.
If he outranked Jim Ward, Galloway thought, he would bark "attention" and announce that he was Lieutenant Schneider reporting for duty as ordered with a party of one."
"Welcome to sunny Hawaii," Galloway said, extending his hand. "How was the flight?"
"Long," Jim Ward said.
"Very nice, thank you, Sir," Lieutenant Schneider said.
Oh, that's the way he's decided to play this. He probably sat with his thumb up his ass for a long time, trying to figure the best way to behave when reporting to a squadron commanded by an ex-sergeant.
"I've got a car outside. You can flip a coin to see who gets to sit in the rumble seat. Need any help with your gear?"
"I can manage, thanks," Ward said.
"No, Sir. Thank you, Sir," Schneider said.
He led them outside.
"Great car!" Jim Ward said. "I always wanted one of these. Yours?"
"Yeah. I bought it when I was with VMF-211, tore it apart, and rebuilt it."
Captain Galloway suspected that Lieutenant Schneider was not nearly as enthusiastic about a nine-year-old yellow Ford roadster as Lieutenant Ward was. And he saw that Schneider was almost visibly relieved when Ward settled himself in the rumble seat with their luggage. Riding in the rumble seat of a nine-year-old yellow Ford roadster was not the sort of thing that Lieutenant Schneider felt was appropriate for a Marine officer, especially one who had entered the service from Annapolis.
Galloway got behind the wheel.
"Following the sacred military custom of 'do as I say, not what I do,' " he said, "be advised that wearing flight suits off the flight line is a no-no. A couple of the guys have got themselves written up by the MPs and Shore Patrol."
"What happens then?" Ward asked.
"I reply by endorsement that the offenders have been hung, then drawn and quartered. It's a pain in the ass. We have only one kid for a clerk, and he's not all that good with a typewriter. So don't get caught."
"Got you," Jim Ward said. He leaned forward from the rumble seat and thrust an envelope, a thick one, firmly sealed with scotch tape, at Galloway.
"What's this?"
"A little note from Aunt Caroline," Jim Ward said.
"You hang onto it," Galloway said. "I'm greasy and so is the flight suit. I was about to take a shower when they called and said you were here."
"We could have waited," Schneider said.
"I figured to hell with it," Galloway said. "I'm going to fly again this afternoon anyway."
"We have planes?" Ward asked eagerly.
"Wildcats," Galloway said. "New Wildcats. And if you talk nicely to Sergeant Oblensky, he will have your name painted on it, and you can send a picture home to Mommy."
"Who is Sergeant Oblensky?" Ward asked.
"The maintenance sergeant. Best one in the Air Group. At the moment, he's also the first sergeant, the mess sergeant, the supply sergeant, and the motor sergeant."
"How is that, Sir?" Schneider asked.
"Because we don't have anybody else to be the first sergeant, the mess sergeant, the supply sergeant, or the motor sergeant. I'm working on it, so far with a monumental lack of success."
"I see," Schneider said.
"Where we're going now is to Ewa, where I will show you MAG-113 Headquarters,"-Marine Air Group 113; a MAG is the next superior headquarters to a squadron, the aviation equivalent, so to speak, of an infantry battalion-"then the BOQ, and then our squadron office. Then we'll go to the flight line, where I'll get out. You will then drive back to MAG-113. The Skipper-Lieutenant Colonel Clyde D. Dawkins-always wants a personal look at the new meat. When he's finished with you, go to the BOQ and get yourself set up there. And then go to the squadron office, where PFC Hastings will do all the necessary paperwork on you. I'll meet you there, and we can go to the club for our one daily beer and supper. OK?"
"Sounds fine to me," Ward said.
"The penalty for dinging your skipper's little yellow car is death by slow castration," Galloway said. "A word to the wise, so to speak." They chuckled.
"I suppose your flight physicals are up to date?"
"Yes, Sir," they chorused.
"OK. Make sure Hastings gets a copy. And your orders, too, of course. Then in the morning, we'll go flying. Local area checkout if nothing else. There are two IPs. Me and a Lieutenant name of Bill Dunn. He got a Betty and a Zero at Midway. Good pilot. Pay attention to what he says. I do."
"He's almost halfway to being an ace," Ward thought aloud.
"Before you fly away on dreams of glory," Galloway said, "he also took a 20mm round in his window at Midway that damned near made him a soprano, and he totalled the airplane when he set it down. Most of the pilots of VMF-211 who took off for Midway didn't come back. Bear that in mind, too."
There was a moment's silence and then Schneider said, "Sir, we're hardly presentable. To report to the Group Commander, I mean."
"Lieutenant," Galloway said, "we are blessed with a Group Commander who is wise enough to know how mussed people get flying here from the States. He wants a look at your balls, not the crease in your trousers."
Jim Ward laughed.
"Yes, Sir," Schneider said.
If first impressions are important, Galloway thought as he drove the Ford convertible down the taxi road behind the flight line, Big Steve just blew it so far as Schneider is concerned.
Technical Sergeant Oblensky was sitting on the ground in the shade of a Wildcat, his back against the left wheel, with a bottle of Coke resting on his belly. He was wearing service shoes and what had originally been khaki trousers, now somewhat raggedly cut off just above the knees. And nothing else. The belly on which the Coke bottle sat sagged over the trouser waistline. His massive chest was streaked with grease and what probably was hydraulic oil, and he needed a shave. His head and neck were sweat streaked.
As Galloway stopped the car and he and the others got out, Oblensky pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over. He glanced at the two young officers with Galloway and dismissed them as unimportant; then he looked at Galloway.
"Those fucking guns need a good armorer," he announced. "Peterson came back this morning with three of his guns jammed after three, four rounds."
There were four.50 caliber air-cooled Browning machine guns on F4F-4 aircraft.
"What's the problem? More important, what do we do about it?"
"If I
knew what the problem was, I'd fix it," Oblensky said. "What I did was call a pal-used to be a China Marine, now he's a Gunny with the 2nd Raider Battalion, guy named Zimmerman. He said if I could get them over there, he'd have a look at them."
"OK," Galloway said.
"But I'd have to give him a little present."
"What's he want?"
"An auxiliary generator," Oblensky said. "They're living in tents. He's got a refrigerator someplace, but he needs juice to run it."
"Jesus, Steve, we only have two."
"I think I know where I can get another one."
"Where?"
"You don't want to know, Captain."
"And if you get caught?"
"Then I guess you'd still have some fucked up Brownings, Captain."
"Then be careful," Galloway said.
Big Steve nodded.
Galloway glanced at Ward and Schneider. He saw fascination in Ward's eyes and disbelief in Schneider's, as both came to comprehend what had just been discussed.
"Gentlemen," Galloway said, "I'd like you to meet Technical Sergeant Oblensky, the squadron maintenance sergeant. Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Ward and Lieutenant Schneider; they've just reported aboard."
Big Steve extended his hammy, greasy hand to Ward and Schneider in turn. Ward shook the hand with visible pleasure; Schneider managed a smile only with an almost visible effort.
"Welcome aboard, Sirs," Big Steve said. "The Skipper's told me about you. We didn't expect you so soon."
"I told them you'd paint their names on their airplanes, so we could take a picture," Galloway said.
"Consider it done. Tomorrow, for sure," Big Steve said. He smiled, turned, and pointed at the Wildcat behind him. "This one's ready for a test hop, and if they can replace one more jug in that fucked-up engine in Six-Oh-Three, that'll be ready this afternoon, too." (A "jug" is the engine's cylinder and piston assembly.)
"Is that what you want me to do, Steve, test-fly this one?"
"Lieutenant Dunn took Lieutenant Peterson out again. He said if you got hung up, he'd test-fly this one when he got back."
"What I'd like, Steve, is for six-oh-three to be ready for a test hop when I bring this one back," Galloway said.
"You want to trust Neely to replace the jug himself? I mean, I got to see about that other auxiliary generator."
"We have to push him out of the nest sometime, Steve."
"OK. I'll tell him to have it ready when you get back," Oblensky said. "Things are probably going to be a little tight. You want to change your plans for tonight, Captain?"
Shit! I forgot all about that!
Mrs. Stefan Oblensky, aka Lieutenant Commander Florence Kocharski, United States Navy Nurse Corps, had requested the pleasure of the company of Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, at dinner at the family residence where she and Technical Sergeant Oblensky cohabited with the blessings of God but in contravention of the Rules and Customs of the United States Naval Service.
Charley looked at Big Steve's face.
I can 't turn him down again. They've asked me four times, and I've had to turn him down three.
"Hell, no," he said. "I'll be there."
Chapter Twelve
(One)
HEADQUARTERS, MAG-21
EWA USMC AIR STATION
OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1445 HOURS 7 JULY 1942
Lieutenant David F. Schneider reached out and touched Lieutenant Jim Ward's arm as Ward tried to operate the door latch of Galloway's 1933 Ford convertible. Ward turned and looked at him.
"Don't you really think it would be a good idea if we took a shave and got into a fresh uniform before we go in here?"
"You heard what the man said. The man said the colonel is smart enough to know you lose the crease in your trousers when you spend twelve hours in an airplane. And the man, if I have to point this out, is now our commanding officer."
"But he hasn't changed much," Schneider said, "has he?"
"Meaning what?"
"You did understand that he gave that bare-chested gorilla of a sergeant of his permission to steal an auxiliary power unit generator someplace, from somebody who certainly needs it?"
Ward didn't reply.
"So that he can swap it to some other sergeant in the 2nd Raiders," Schneider went on, "for doing something to the machine guns that he's not competent, or too stupid, to do himself? The last I heard they call that 'misappropriation of government property.'"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jim Ward said.
"You were standing right there!" Schneider said indignantly, and then understood. "Oh," he said in disgust. "I see."
"I don't think you really do, Dave," Ward said. "Let me tell you something about yourself, Dave. Most of the time you're a pretty good guy; but hiding inside you-I guess all the time-is a real prick struggling to get out. I don't like you much when that happens."
Schneider looked at Ward for a time, and then he said slowly, "Your attitude wouldn't have anything to do with the relationship between Galloway and your Aunt Caroline, would it?"
"Probably that has something to do with it," Ward said. "But what I think it is, what I hope it is, is loyalty to my commanding officer."
Schneider snorted.
"You weren't sent here," Ward said. "You volunteered, so you could get out of flying R4Ds and into fighters. Galloway fixed it. If it wasn't for him, you'd still be at Quantico. You knew what Charley-Captain Galloway- was like when he let you volunteer. All you had to say was no."
"I can't believe that you are actually condoning what you saw him do with your own eyes."
Ward turned away and managed to get the door open. Then he walked quickly around the front of the car and intercepted Schneider as he was getting out.
"I never thought I would enjoy something like this," he said, "but I was wrong. You will recall, Lieutenant, that I am senior to you. By the authority therefore vested in me by the goddamned Naval Service, Lieutenant, I order you (a) to get back in the car; (b) to shut your fucking mouth; (c) and to sit there and don't move until I send for you. And be advised, Lieutenant, that if it comes down to it, I will swear on a stack of Bibles that when Sergeant Oblensky spoke with us, he was dressed like a fucking recruiting poster and said not one fucking word about a goddamned generator. You got that, Lieutenant?" "Jim," Schneider said. "Obviously, I..." "Your orders, Lieutenant, are to sit there with your fucking mouth shut," Ward said, spun on his heel, and walked to the door.
(Two)
THRESHOLD, RUNWAY 17
EWA MARINE CORPS AIR STATION
OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1450 HOURS 7 JULY 1942
Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, had a dark secret, a true secret, shared with no one else. He wasn't sure if it was a character flaw, or whether it was something that happened to other people, too. But he knew that he didn't want it known, and that he could never ask anyone else if they were similarly affected. Or maybe similarly afflicted.
The cold truth was that in situations like this one-in the cockpit, with all the needles in the green, in the last few instants before he would shove the throttle forward and then touch his mike button and announce to the tower, with studied savoir faire, "Five Niner Niner rolling"-he was afraid.
He could tell himself that it was irrational, that he was a better pilot than most people he knew, that the aircraft he was about to fly was perfectly safe, that he had so many hours total time; and he could even remind himself that a study by the University of California had proved beyond reasonable doubt that a cretin (defined as the next step above morons) could be taught to fly; but it didn't work. At that moment- and all those other times-he had a very clear image of the airplane going out of control, smashing into the ground, rolling over, exploding. And it scared him. Sometimes his knees actually trembled. And more than once he had taken his hand from the stick so he could try to hold his shaking knees still.
Today, as he sat there waiting, he reminded himself of the co
mmand decision he had made vis-…-vis himself and Lieutenant Bill Dunn: who would fly what and why. Dunn was a good pilot, and he had done something Galloway had not done. He had met the enemy in aerial combat and shot down two airplanes. Galloway believed that there was no way to vicariously experience what it was like to have someone shooting at you.
That did not change, however, his belief that good pilots were a product of two qualities: natural ability and experience. He really believed that he was a better natural pilot than Dunn, and there was no question that he had much more experience.
The Corps IV - Battleground Page 31