W.E.B. Griffin - THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

"Is that the voice of experience talking?"

"Unfortunately," Dunn said.

"They'll be back," Dawkins said, suddenly getting back to the here and now. "I wouldn't be surprised if in force. How's your squadron?"

"After Knowles, I'm down to five operational aircraft. By now, they should be refueled and rearmed. Tail number 107 is down with a bad engine. I don't think it will be ready anytime soon; maybe, just maybe, by tomorrow. Oblensky is switching engines. There are two in the bone-yard he thinks he may be able to use."

"What happened to the engine?"

"Well, not only was it way overtime, but it really started to blow oil. I listened to it. I don't think it would make it off the runway. I redlined it for engine replacement."

"They keep promising us airplanes."

"They promised me I would travel to exotic places and implied I would get laid a lot," Dunn said. "I don't trust them anymore."

"I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt," Dawkins answered. "I believe they're trying." His mouth curled into a small smile. "You don't think Guadalcanal is 'exotic'?"

"I was young then, Skipper. I didn't know the difference between 'exotic' and 'erotic' "

Dawkins touched his arm. "You better get something to eat."

"The minute I start to eat, the goddamned radar will go off."

"Probably," Dawkins said.

This, Dawkins thought, is where I'm supposed to say something reassuring. Or better, inspiring. Hell of a note that a MAG commander can't think of a goddamn thing reassuring or inspiring to say to one of his squadron commanders.

He thought of something:

"When Galloway comes back, I'll lay three to one he comes with stuff to drink."

"If he comes back," Dunn said. "What odds are you offering about that?"

"He'll be back, Bill," Dawkins said, hoping his voice carried more conviction than he felt.

[THREE]

=TOP SECRET=

FROM: MAG-21 1750 11OCT42

SUBJECT: AFTER-ACTION REPORT

TO: COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, PACIFIC, PEARL HARBOR INFO: SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA, BRISBANE COMMANDANT, USMC, WASH, DC

1. UPON RADAR DETECTION AT 1220 11OCT42 OF TWO FLIGHTS OF UNIDENTIFIED AIRCRAFT APPROX

140 NAUTICAL MILES MAG-21 LAUNCHED;

A. EIGHT (8) F4F4 VF-5

B. FIFTEEN (15) F4F4 VMF-121

C. SIX (6) F4F4 VMF-223

D. FIVE(5)F4F4VMF-224

E. FIVE (5) F4F4 VMF-229

F. THREE (3) P40 67TH FIGHTER SQUADRON USAAC

G. NINE (9) P39 67TH FIGHTER SQUADRON USAAC.

2. VF-5 AND VMF-121 NO CONTACT.

3. DUE TO INABILITY EXCEED 19,000 FEET WITH AVAILABLE OXYGEN EQUIPMENT USAAC AIRCRAFT

MADE NO INITIAL CONTACT.

4. AT 1255 11OCT42 REMAINING FORCE MADE CONTACT AT 25,000 FEET WITH 34 KATE REPEAT 34

KATE BOMBERS ESCORTED BY 29 ZERO REPEAT 29 ZERO FIGHTERS APPROXIMATE 20 NAUTICAL MILES

FROM HENDERSON FIELD.

5. ENEMY LOSSES:

A. NINE (9) KATE

KUNTZ, CHARLES M 1/LT USMC TWO (2)

MANN, THOMAS H JR 1/LT USMCR TWO (2)

DUNN, WILLIAM C 1/LT USMCR ONE (1)

HALLOWELL, GEORGE L 1/LT USMCR TWO (2)

KENNEDY, MATTHEW H 1/LT USMCR (2)

B. FOUR (4) ZERO

DUNN, WILLIAM C 1/LT USMCR ONE (1)

MCNAB, HOWARD T/SGT USMC (2)

ALLEN, GEORGE F 1/LT USMCR ONE (1)

C. IN ADDITION, SHARPSTEEN, JAMES CAPT USAAC 67 USAAC FS DOWNED ONE (1) KATE

STRAGGLER.

6. MAG-21 LOSSES:

A. ONE (1) F4F4 CRASHED AT SEA. PILOT RECOVERED.

B. ONE (1) F4F4 CRASHED ON LANDING, DESTROYED.

C. THREE (3) F4F4 SLIGHTLY DAMAGED, REPAIRABLE.

7. DUE TO CLOUD COVER REMAINING ENEMY FORCE COULD NOT SEE HENDERSON FIELD, BOMB LOAD

DROPPED APPROXIMATELY FOUR NAUTICAL MILES TO WEST. NO DAMAGE TO FIELD OR EQUIPMENT.

DAWKINS, CLYDE W LTCOL USMC COMMANDING

=TOP SECRET=

[FOUR]

Henderson Field Guadalcanal,

Solomon Islands

0615 Hours 12 October 1942

As the Douglas R4D (the Navy/Marine Corps version of the twin-engine Douglas DC-3) turned smoothly onto its final approach, the pilot, who had been both carefully scanning the sky and taking a careful look at the airfield itself, suddenly put his left hand on the control wheel and gestured with his right to the copilot to relinquish control.

The lanky and (like nearly everyone else in that part of the world) tanned pilot of the R4D was twenty-eight-year old Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR-known to his subordinates as either "The Skipper" or "The Old Man."

The copilot was a twenty-two-year-old Marine Corps second lieutenant whose name was Malcolm S. Pickering. Everyone called him "Pick."

As Pick Pickering took his feet off the rudder pedals, he took his left hand from the wheel and held both hands up in front of him, fingers extended, a gesture indicating, You've got it.

I didn't have to take it away from him, Charley Galloway thought as he moved his hand to the throttle quadrant. His many other flaws notwithstanding, Pickering is a first-rate pilot. More than that, he's that rare creature, a natural pilot.

So why did I take it away from him? Because no pilot believes any other pilot can fly as well as he can? Or because I am functioning as a responsible commander, aware that high on the long list of critically short materiel of war on Guadalcanal are R4D airplanes. And consequently I am obliged to do whatever I can to make sure nobody dumps one of them?

He glanced over at Pickering to see if he could detect any signs on his face of a bruised ego. There were none.

Is that because he accepts the unquestioned right of pilots-in-command to fly the airplane, and that copilots can drive only at the pleasure of the pilot?

Or because he is a fighter pilot, and doesn't give a damn who flies an aerial truck, all aerial truck drivers being inferior to all fighter pilots?

Galloway made a last-second minor correction to line up with the center of the runway, then flared perfectly and touched down smoothly. The runway was rough. The landing roll took them past the Pagoda, the Japanese-built control tower, and then past the graveyard. There the hulks of shot-up, crashed, burned, and otherwise irreparably damaged airplanes waited until usable parts could be salvaged from them to keep other planes flying.

Where, Galloway thought, Pickering can see the pile of crushed and burned aluminum that used to be the Grumman Wildcat, his buddy, First Lieutenant Dick Stecker, dumped on landing... and almost literally broke every bone in his body.

Galloway carefully braked the aircraft to a stop, then turned it around and started to taxi back down the runway.

"You still want to turn your wings in for a rifle?" Galloway asked.

Pickering turned to look at him.

He didn't reply at first, taking so long that Galloway was suddenly worried what his answer might be.

"I was upset," Pickering said, meeting his eyes, "when I saw Stecker crash. If I can, I'd like to take back what I said then."

"Done," Galloway said, nodding his head. "It was never said."

"I did say it, Skipper," Pickering answered softly. "But I want to take it back."

"Pickering, they're short of R4D pilots. I'm an R4D IP"-an Instructor Pilot, with the authority to classify another pilot as competent to fly an R4D. "As far as I'm concerned, you're checked out in one of these. I'm sure there'd be a billet for you on Espiritu Santo."

"If that's my option, Captain," Pickering said, "then I will take the rifle. I'm a fighter pilot."

"It takes as much balls to fly this as it does a Wildcat," Galloway said.

"More. These things don't get to shoot back," Pickering said.

Galloway chuckled, then said, "Just to make sure you understand: I wasn't trying to get rid of you."

Pickering met his eyes again for a long moment.

"Thank you, Sir," he said.

[FIVE]

Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR, was nineteen years old, five feet ten inches tall, and weighed 132 pounds (he'd weighed 146 when he came ashore on Guadalcanal two months and two days earlier). And he was pink skinned-thus perhaps understandably known to his peers as "Easterbunny." Easterbrook was sitting in the shade of the Henderson Field control tower, the Pagoda, when the weird R4D came in for a landing. It had normal landing gears, with wheels; but attached to all that was what looked like large skis. None of the other Marine and Navy R4Ds that flew into Henderson were so equipped.