The Corps IV - Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  Galloway looked at him and shrugged.

  "I was just thinking out loud."

  "I was just thinking," Big Steve said, "that you may not be so dumb after all-for an officer, that is."

  "You have just been complimented," Flo chuckled. "Enjoy it, Charley."

  "I'll drink to that," Charley said, and then looked at Jim Ward. "But you will not. You are flying tomorrow. You will be practicing the technique of taking off short. And you will be as baffled as any of your peers when they start wondering out loud what that crap is supposed to be all about-as opposed to mock dogfights, which are a lot more fun."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "Let's eat," Flo said. "We've having a Hawaiian Luau. Except it's a pork loin. I can't stand the sight of one of those poor baby pigs with apples in their mouths."

  (Six)

  OFFICER'S CLUB

  U.S. NAVY BASE, PEARL HARBOR

  OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  2130 HOURS 7 JULY 1942

  Although he was of course delighted to see his sister's son, Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam was also a little annoyed at the way the kid popped up unannounced out of nowhere, expecting to be entertained.

  The Admiral had been working his ass off since the Eyes Only EXECUTE OPERATIONAL PESTILENCE radio had come in five days before, and it seemed obvious that the work days were going to grow longer rather than shorter as things finally started to mesh.

  The truth of the matter was that the Pacific Fleet and attached Marine Forces were not prepared-in any way-to stage an amphibious assault on an island in the Hawaiian chain, much less on three islands a quarter of the world away in the Solomons.

  There was not enough of anything that would be needed. About the only thing that was not in short supply was senior officers. A whole flock of commanders and captains and even a dozen or so flag officers had been called back from retirement. They had come back into uniform willingly, even eagerly, and their expertise was most welcome. But at times, Admiral Wagam had reluctantly concluded, they were like a bunch of goddamned old maids.

  By his own actual calculation, Admiral Wagam was spending two-thirds of his time establishing shipping priorities and scheduling convoys and the other third settling disputes over Naval protocol between the retreads, who were exquisitely sensitive to the prerogatives of rank and time in grade.

  Most often, the disputes had to do with the assignment of creature comforts-who had a permanently assigned staff car with driver, and who didn't, that sort of thing. But the worst fights were over quarters-where the most desirable rooms in the Bachelor Officer's Quarters were assigned, or in cottages, in the case of captains and flag officers. These assignments were ordinarily made on the basis of rank, and within rank, on the basis of time in grade. Now and again, however, some of the retreads came to believe that the assignment they had been given was beneath their dignity and inappropriate to their rank and seniority.

  As Admiral Wagam knew only too well, "seniority" was not as simple a concept as it might at first appear to be. For instance, seniority could not be established solely by date of promotion; for this would have made virtually all of the retreads senior to virtually all of the officers in a particular grade who had not retired. Some of the retreads had retired as early as 1935.

  Thus it had been necessary to make up a seniority list for the retreads. Clerks had dug into the records to see how much time in grade Captain So-and-so had at the time of his retirement. This would be added to the time he now had on active duty since being recalled. This produced a seniority list based on time in grade, not date of promotion.

  It had not been possible, however, to merge this list with a similar list prepared for nonretired officers, and announce that Captain A, who had never retired, and who had five years, nine months, and eleven days of service as a captain, therefore outranked Captain B, a retread, who had five years, nine months and one day of service as a four striper. When this happened, Captain B would very often make it known that the list be damned, when he retired, Captain A was a lowly lieutenant commander, a none-too-bright one, as he recalled; and he had no intention of taking orders from the young pup now.

  And it wasn't a question of simply reminding Captain B that he was back in the Navy and expected to take orders, although Dapper Dan Wagam had done just that several times. Even when there was no question of seniority, a good many of the retreads seemed to have an uncontrollable urge to question the orders they had been given. Even when he himself was giving the orders, he'd come to expect from these guys a moment of smug hesitation, then something like, "Well, in my experience, we did... or did not..." Or, "In the Old Navy, they..." When they believed that they were being forced by an unappreciative Navy to take orders from some young pup still wet behind the ears, their obedience ceased being cheerful and willing. "After all," they were quick to point out, "we were asked to return to duty."

  It often lent an entirely new meaning, Wagam had concluded, to the word "grudging."

  And since he was on the bridge of a desk, rather than at sea, Admiral Wagam had, he believed, more than his fair share of the retreads. Indeed, very few of them were actually being sent to sea, although virtually all of them had volunteered-often two or three times a week-to take a command.

  When his sister's son, First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, showed up, Admiral Wagam was trying to recover from yet another bad day. For one thing, he was frustrated that he'd failed to solve logistical problems there was no satisfactory solution for-there was simply not enough available tonnage for OPERATION PESTILENCE; and consequently, the First Marine Division was going to assault a hostile shore inadequately supplied. And for another, he'd been forced to handle no less than three retreads who truly believed that their professional reputations were being demeaned by the duties he had assigned them.

  But Admiral Wagam was as gracious to David Schneider as he could be under the circumstances. He realized his problems were certainly not David's fault; but more to the point, his sister was hell on wheels when she felt one of her children had been slighted....

  So he personally showed David around the office, to give the boy some understanding of what he was up to.

  He did not, of course, mention OPERATION PESTILENCE, which was classified TOP SECRET.

  And then he took him to dinner in the Flag Officer's Mess and introduced him around. It would have been nice if David could have written his mother that he had been introduced to Admiral Nimitz, but Nimitz apparently had elected to eat in his quarters.

  Nimitz was probably eating alone, or as alone as the CINC-PAC ever got to be, Admiral Wagam thought, as opposed to having a working dinner. If it had been a working dinner, he probably would have been invited.

  And then he sent him on his way:

  "David, I'd like to send you back to Ewa in my car, but I'm going to need it."

  "I understand."

  "There's a bus that runs between here and Ewa. Among other places, it stops at the Main Club."

  "I can manage, Uncle Dan."

  "I would suppose there will be a number of officers from MAG-11 at the club. Ask around. The odds are you can find a ride back with one of them."

  "Thank you."

  "Give your mother my love when you write."

  "Yes, Sir, I'll do that."

  Chapter Thirteen

  (One)

  First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, Executive Officer, VMF-229, was sitting at the bar with Lieutenant (j.g.) Mary Agnes O'Malley, Nurse Corps, USN, having an after-dinner cognac. Dunn had learned that an after-dinner cognac-for that matter, any kind of alcohol at any time-seemed to trigger in Mary Agnes lewd and carnal desires. As they sipped their cognacs, her arm was resting on his upper leg, and her hand was gently stroking his inner thigh. She was fully aware what this did to him. And he knew that once there was proof positive, so to speak, that she had flipped his HORNY ON switch, and the mechanism had been activated, she would look into his eyes with pleasure and understanding, and purse her lips in promise of
what was to come. And probably even give it a friendly little pat on the head. Good doggie.

  Dunn had recently been giving a good deal of thought to his relationship with Mary Agnes O'Malley.

  For starters, he was the envy of most of his peers, even the noble minded who chose to believe she wasn't really giving him any. The ratio of young bachelor officers in the Naval Establishment around Pearl Harbor to good-looking, socially acceptable females-or for that matter, to any kind of females-was probably two-hundred-fifty to one. Phrased another way, the odds against a first lieutenant hooking up with a good-looking, firm-breasted, blonde-headed nurse who fucked like a mink were probably on the order of a thousand to one.

  What did every red-blooded Marine Aviator want? A nymphomaniac whose father owned a liquor store. Mary Agnes's father didn't own a liquor store, but there didn't seem to be any question that if she wasn't really a nympho, she was pretty damned close.

  But Bill Dunn kept remembering from college some great philosophical truth-he forgot who said it-to the effect that the only thing worse than not realizing one's dreams was to realize them: Here he was with a good-looking woman who couldn't wait to get him in bed every night. There she would eagerly perform sexual acts he had seen before only in stag movies. And he was unhappy with the situation.

  Even the sex, once the novelty wore off, was becoming a chore. He was regarding it lately as his duty, his more and more reluctant holding up of his end of the bargain.

  The sad truth was that Mary Agnes O'Malley was dumber than dog shit. It was a realization he'd come to somewhat belatedly, probably because intellectual attainment was not high on his original list of priorities. But it didn't take him long to begin to think that it was entirely within the realm of possibility that an original idea and a cold drink of water would actually kill her.

  Mary Agnes O'Malley read Photoplay and Screen Life magazines for intellectual stimulation; she was a veritable fountain of information regarding the private life of movie stars. She had read somewhere, for instance, that actor Tyrone Power had entered the Corps and was in flight training. Her dream was that Power would be assigned to Hawaii and Dunn would introduce them. She spoke of this often.

  If that happened, Lieutenant Power-or Captain Power, whatever he was-would probably set the minimum time record for the Marine Aviator getting his ashes hauled after arrival in the Territory of Hawaii.

  But in the meantime, Mary Agnes made it plain that Lieutenant Bill Dunn was all that her heart-and other anatomical parts-desired. This was not because she found him a charming companion, or even an outstanding lover, but because he looked, as she often told him, just like an actor named Alan Ladd.

  Dunn knew that if he really wanted to break it off with Mary Agnes, he could do it relatively easily. He could just call her and say that he had the duty and could not make it over to Pearl. She was dumb, but she was capable of understanding that. He was convinced that if he did this five nights in a row, say, no matter how determined she was not "to cheat" on him, she would have a snifter or two of Hennessey VSOP, her blood would start to boil, and some other soul would find himself sneaking up the back stairs to Room Eleven, Female Officer's Quarters Fourteen.

  But in his own eyes he had no character. Or phrased less delicately, he was letting his dick do his thinking for him. He made "Sorry, I have the duty" telephone calls at least four times-for two nights in a row, twice. But that was as far as logic could go, vis-…-vis overwhelming the sinful lusts of the flesh.

  No matter how high his original resolve and how firm his original intentions, by the third day, he was unable to refute the whispers in his ear, Billy-Boy, they are not pulling your chain with that "Live Today For Tomorrow We Die" shit. The piece of ass you are so casually rejecting may well be the last piece you are ever offered. Tomorrow morning, you may crash inflames. Or they may tell you to get your ass aboard a carrier; and away you will sail to your hero's death. With that in mind, does it really make any sense to spend your last night alive or ashore in your room with a portable radio for company, when you can play Hide the Salami and other games in Mary Agnes's perfumed bed?

  Dunn noticed First Lieutenant David Schneider within sixty seconds or so of the moment Schneider walked into the bar of the Main Club. Schneider caught Dunn's attention because he was wearing a white uniform. Officers wearing white uniforms outnumbered officers wearing greens about ten to one, but Schneider's white uniform was the only one-Marine or Navy-with gold Naval Aviator's wings pinned to it.

  I wonder who that horse's ass is? was Bill Dunn's first thought. If you were an aviator, you could get away with not wearing whites.

  His second thought immediately followed the first: He probably just got here. He's probably, as a matter-of-fact, one of the two we got today.

  When Dunn had signed out in the squadron office for the Main Club at Pearl Harbor, PFC Hastings told him VMF-229 had two new officer pilots.

  "If you don't stop that, I'm going to bust my zipper," First Lieutenant Dunn said quietly to Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley, removing her hand from his crotch.

  "Promises, promises," she replied and pursed her lips at him.

  "Excuse me," he said, getting up.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I think the guy in whites down at the end of the bar is one of ours," he said. "I'll be right back."

  Mary Agnes looked toward the end of the bar and saw First Lieutenant David Schneider.

  "Oh, he's cute!" she exclaimed, "He looks just like John Garfield."

  Dunn reached Schneider in time to see the bartender fill the lieutenant's glass with ginger ale. He was a little surprised, because there was no darker liquid already in the glass.

  "Good evening," Dunn said.

  Schneider nodded an acknowledgment, but did not speak.

  "Is your name John Garfield, by any chance?"

  "No, it is not."

  "Just get in? To VMF-229 by any chance?"

  Dunn saw that the question made the lieutenant uncomfortable.

  Obviously, he can't answer that question. Japanese ears are everywhere. Loose lips sink ships. And I probably look like a Jap spy in disguise.

  "My name is Dunn. I'm Exec of VMF-229."

  "Oh," Schneider said, straightening. "Yes, Sir. My name is Schneider, Sir. I reported aboard today, Sir."

  Dunn gave him his hand.

  "How do you do, Sir?"

  "I heard there were two of you?"

  "Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Jim Ward was on the same set of orders."

  "He here with you?"

  "No, Sir. I believe he stayed aboard Ewa."

  "Oh, now I know who you are. The Skipper stole you from Quantico, right?"

  "We were stationed at Quantico, yes, Sir."

  "Now, don't misunderstand this. This is a simple suggestion. I'm about to return to Ewa. I have a car. If you need a ride?"

  "Yes, Sir, thank you very much. Actually, I came in here hoping to get a ride."

  "Well, then, come on down the bar while I finish my drink."

  "Won't I be in the way, Sir? Two's company, and so on?"

  "Not at all," Bill Dunn said. "The lady and I are just friends."

  This is despicable of you, Billy Dunn. But on the other hand, what a clever sonofabitch you are sometimes.

  "Lieutenant O'Malley, may I present Lieutenant Schneider, who joined the squadron today?"

  "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," Mary Agnes said. "Did anyone ever tell you you look just like John Garfield?"

  Dave Schneider flushed. "No, I can't say that anyone has."

  "Don't you think he does, Bill?"

  "Spitting image," Bill Dunn said. He was pleased to see that Lieutenant Schneider did not seem to be able to keep his eyes away from Mary Agnes's tunic, where her bosom placed quite a strain against the material; it sort of made her gold buttons stand to attention.

  He beckoned to the bartender.

  "We'll have a round," he said.

  "Sir," Dave Schneider said uncomfortably, "
I was led to believe we'd be flying tomorrow."

  "One cognac won't hurt you," Bill Dunn said. "And we can't welcome you aboard with ginger ale."

  "Yes, Sir," Dave Schneider said.

  "And another part of the welcome aboard ritual is a dance with Lieutenant O'Malley," Dunn said. "Mary Agnes is something like the squadron mascot, isn't that so, Mary Agnes?"

  "Oh, it is not," she said. "You make me sound like a cocker spaniel. But I do like to dance."

  How about a bitch in heat?

  (Two)

  HEADQUARTERS, RAN COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT

  TOWNESVILLE, QUEENSLAND