W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps IV - Battleground

"I'm not buying it," Galloway said. "I already own it. I gave Sergeant Oblensky a power-of-attorney to use it when I went to the States."

"It's on file," Oblensky said. "Look under 'Oblensky.' "

"Let me check," the sergeant said, and he went to a vertical file cabinet. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. He returned with a manila folder, reading from it as he walked.

"You're Tech Sergeant Galloway, Sir?"

"No. I'm Captain Galloway. But I was a Tech Sergeant when I signed that power-of-attorney."

"Yes, Sir. That's what I meant, Sir. I'll get the forms, Sir."

He went into a small storeroom.

"I think he knows who you are," Oblensky said, softly.

"Who am I?"

"I mean, I think he knows what happened, who you are," Oblensky said.

The sergeant came out of the storeroom with several printed forms and a small metal plate. He sat down at the typewriter and fed the forms into it. He asked for Galloway's serial number and unit.

"There's a new regulation, Sir," the sergeant said. "You'll need your CO's permission to have a car on the base."

"Colonel Dawkins, you mean?"

"No, Sir, your squadron commander will do."

"I command VMF-229," Galloway said.

"Yes, Sir," the sergeant said, visibly surprised.

Big Steve was right. That guy did make the connection. It will be interesting conversation at the Staff NCO Club tonight-for that matter at the Officer's Club, too-and all over the base by tomorrow:

"Remember that story about the Flying Sergeant of VMF-211 who fixed up the F4F the Japs got on December 7? Fixed it up and flew it out to the Saratoga at sea and really pissed the Navy off? The guy they sent back to the states for court-martial? Well, he's back, and guess what, he's a captain, no shit, and a squadron commander!"

The sergeant came from his typewriter and handed Galloway forms to sign and then the small metal plate.

"You screw this on top of the Hawaiian plate, Sir," he said. "That'll be fifty cents, please."

Galloway handed him two quarters.

"Thank you," he said.

"Excuse me, Sir," the sergeant said. "You used to be a flying sergeant with VMF-211, right?"

"Right."

"I thought I remembered the name," the sergeant said.

Would you like my autograph? How to Succeed in the Corps: Really fuck up!

He became aware that Oblensky was tugging at the small metal plate, and released it to him. When they went outside, Oblensky opened the rumble seat, took a screwdriver from a small tool roll, and replaced the tag (for enlisted men) above the license plate with the new officer's tag Galloway had just been given.

"Thank you, Steve," Galloway said. "And also for keeping the car so shipshape."

"Don't be silly," Oblensky said. "I was using it, wasn't I? I owe you."

I'm not very good at this psychological bullshit, "How the wise commissioned officer should deal with the enlisted swine." Fuck it!

"Steve, I had you transferred to VMF-229," Galloway said. "Is that going to cause any problems?"

"You're starting with problems," Oblensky said. "What you have is fourteen pickled F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl, Christ only knows what shape they're in; a dozen-maybe fifteen, sixteen-kids who are not sure what a wrench is used for;, and a young pilot scuttlebutt says runs from fights."

"I mean with you and me," Galloway said.

Oblensky's eyes narrowed. Galloway knew him well enough to know that meant he was angry. Very angry.

"I don't think I deserved that, Captain Galloway," he said, coldly, after a moment. "I would have thought you know me well enough to know that I have been in the Corps long enough to know where the line is between those of us who wear stripes and those of you who wear bars."

"Christ, Steve!"

"If the captain can remember not to call the sergeant by his Christian name where other people can hear him, the sergeant will remember not to remember that he knew the captain when he was a wiseass little fucker who made tech sergeant before he was old enough to be a pimple on a buck sergeant's ass."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sergeant Oblensky."

"The captain would be wise to do just that," Oblensky said.

They met each other's eyes for a moment, and then, Oblensky first, they smiled at each other.

"Thank you, Steve," Galloway said.

"When does my transfer come through?"

"I don't know about the paperwork, but you're in VMF-229 as of now."

"In that case, why don't we ride over and see what shape our airplanes are in? Unless there's something I don't know about, that would seem to be our first order of business."

They got in the Ford. En route to the wharfs at the Pearl Harbor Naval Station, Oblensky asked, "Remember when we painted this thing? And that Lieutenant Commander wanted to know where we got the paint, and you showed him the can from Sears, Roebuck?"

Galloway chuckled. The paint can from Sears had been labeled, HIGH GLOSS YELLOW ENAMEL. $5.95. After they'd bought it, Oblensky had dumped the contents into a five gallon can of Navy yellow paint intended to paint lines on hangar and flight line floors. He had then refilled it- "borrowed" it from Navy stocks-with a very high quality aviation paint that was reported to be worth sixty dollars a gallon on the civilian market.

The Ford's new paint job had been spectacular, as the Lieutenant Commander had noticed. He had run right down to Sears to get a gallon of their $5.95 "High Gloss Yellow Enamel" to paint his own car. His Studebaker, somehow, hadn't come out looking nearly as nice as Galloway's Ford, and he had been disappointed and mystified.

His own reaction at the time, Charley remembered, was that was the sort of stupid behavior you expected from a fucking officer. He was aware now that he had switched sides, that he was now a fucking officer, and considered fair game by old time non-coms like Big Steve.

"I got some more bad news for you," Oblensky said. "Your Lieutenant Dunn's been fucking your girlfriend."

"You mean Ensign O'Malley?"

"Yeah. You mean you forgot her?"

"She was never my girlfriend, Steve."

"Well," Oblensky chuckled. "You were pretty fucking chummy, as I remember."

In the early morning of December 7, 1941, Technical Sergeant Galloway had been in bed with Ensign O'Malley in a cabin in the hills Technical Sergeant Oblensky had borrowed for the weekend from an old and now retired Marine Corps buddy. When Oblensky had burst into the room to tell Galloway that the Japanese were attacking the Naval base at Pearl Harbor, Ensign O'Malley had been performing on Technical Sergeant Galloway's body a sexual act that he had not even heard of previously, not even in the French movies he had sometimes seen on stag night in the Staff NCO Club.

"What about Flo?" Galloway asked, to change the subject. "You still see her?"

Flo was Lieutenant Florence Kocharski, Navy Nurse Corps, a lady a few years younger and not much smaller than Oblensky. They had met when Oblensky had gone to the Naval Hospital for his annual physical. It had taken them about twenty minutes to decide that it was time to break a rule both had followed for more than twenty years: Officers do not become involved with enlisted personnel.

"I knew you'd get around to asking that, sooner or later," Oblensky replied.

It was not the reply Galloway expected.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't have asked? You were pretty fucking chummy, too, as I remember."

"Off the record, Captain?"

"Off the record."

"We got married," Oblensky said. "The day after you flew out to the Saratoga."

"Married?" Galloway asked, in disbelief.

"We were going to get married when one of us retired anyway," Oblensky said. "We both got our twenty-years in, and then some. So when this goddamned war came along, and they weren't going to let us retire, we figured, fuck 'em. We got married. Flo knew a priest who can keep his mouth shut, and we didn't put ranks or whatever on the marriage license."