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

"But?"

"Sir, what I'm saying, badly I'm afraid, is that I really wish I hadn't served with Captain Galloway when he was an enlisted man."

What bothers me about that? Dawkins wondered, and then he understood: You didn't serve with Charley Galloway, Lieutenant, with him on your wing, or vice versa. He was your IP. By definition, IPs are superior to their students. I'm getting the idea, you presumptuous puppy, that you think an officer of suitable grade should have been assigned to instruct an officer and a gentleman and an Annapolis graduate such as yourself.

"Because you will always think of him as a sergeant, you mean?"

"No, Sir. Because I think he may remember that I was one of his officers. And that might be a little awkward for him."

So you're a fucking liar, too, Mr. Schneider? I'll be goddamned! And an arrogant sonofabitch, too, if you really thought you were going to take me in with that bullshit.

"I think I take your point," Dawkins said. "Well, let me give it a little thought. Perhaps we could quietly arrange a transfer for you to one of the other squadrons."

"I wouldn't want any special treatment, Sir."

"I understand," Dawkins said. "We're talking about the good of the service, aren't we?"

"I think so, Sir."

What I don't understand is how this asshole fooled Charley Galloway. Maybe there's something here I'm missing. But if Galloway hasn't figured this self-serving prick out, I will transfer him for the good of the service. Charley has enough on his mind without worrying about this back-stabbing prick. He'll spend the rest of this fucking war test-flying Piper Cubs in Kansas.

"Well, that seems to be about it, Mr. Schneider," Dawkins said. "Unless there's something on your mind?"

"I hate..."

"Let's hear it?"

"My Uncle Dan is over at Pearl, Sir. On the CINCPAC staff I wonder if there's any chance that I could get over to see him for a couple of hours before I begin my duties here?"

"Your Uncle Dan? I know a Karl Schneider..."

"This is my mother's brother, Sir. Daniel Wagam. Admiral Wagam."

You didn't lose any time letting me know that, did you?

Dawkins looked over Schneider's head at the clock on the wall. It was twenty after three. Certainly, Galloway wasn't going to put Schneider in a cockpit today. For one thing, it was too late. For another, Schneider was just off a long plane ride from the States. What Galloway probably had in mind was taking this prick and the nice kid over to the club so they could meet the other squadron officers. That could wait.

"Why don't you call and see if Admiral Wagam has time for you?" Dawkins said. "If he does, we'll get you a ride over there. I'm sure the admiral could arrange to get you back here by 0500 tomorrow, don't you think?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sure he'd be able to do that."

Dawkins pointed to his telephone.

"Help yourself, Mr. Schneider."

(Four)

HEADQUARTERS, VMF-229

EWA USMC AIR STATION

OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

1640 HOURS 7 JULY 1942

When Captain Charles M. Galloway walked into his headquarters, two people were waiting for him, Lieutenant Jim Ward and PFC Alfred B. Hastings. Both rose to their feet.

Galloway was starting to wonder where Schneider was when he noticed that PFC Hastings was holding something in his hand. It was a piece of cardboard, a laundry shirt stiffener, on which he had drawn a rather nicely done skull and crossbones, the international symbol of danger; an oak leaf, the insignia of majors and lieutenant colonels; and an arrow pointing to Galloway's office.

"Stand at ease," Galloway said sternly. He smiled at Ward, winked at PFC Hastings, and walked into his office.

"Good afternoon, Sir," he said.

Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins was sitting in Charley's chair with his feet on Charley's desk. "You look like shit, Charley," he replied. "How many hours were you up today?"

"Six, I guess. Maybe a little more."

"Well, cut it down," Dawkins said. "I don't want to find myself writing 'pilot fatigue' as the probable cause of your fatal accident."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Close the door," Dawkins said.

Charley did so.

Dawkins was not through with him.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he demanded. "You didn't start flying last week. You know better."

"Big Steve had a bunch of airplanes that needed test flying. I flew them," Galloway answered.

"How many have you got operational?"

"Eighteen, Sir. All of them," Galloway said, not without a hint of pride in his voice. "I have more operational aircraft than I do pilots."

"Christ, that was quick," Dawkins said.

"Big Steve's as good as they come."

"Yeah, but he's got a commanding officer who takes dumb chances test-flying them when he should know better."

"Yes, Sir," Galloway said.

"OK. Tomorrow you don't fly. Tonight, go get drunk. Consider that an order."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Actually, Sir, that thought had gone through my mind."

"I'm serious about this, goddamn you. I want you commanding VMF-229, not some kid six months out of Pensacola."

"Yes, Sir."

"But that's not the reason I am here, instead of inside a cold martini," Dawkins said. "I have interviewed your two new officers, Captain. The one outside seems to be a nice enough kid. Maybe too nice. Tell me about the other one."

Galloway hesitated.

"Out of school, Charley. Consider me your friendly parish priest. Bare your soul."

"The miserable sonofabitch knows how to fly," Galloway said.

"Really?" Dawkins asked doubtfully.

"He's really good," Charley said. "I need pilots like that. And I can handle the sonofabitch part."

"Did you know his uncle is an admiral? Admiral Wagam at CINCPAC?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me. He's trade-school," Charley said, and then heard what he had said. "Sorry, Sir."

"Some of us trade-school graduates are sterling fellows," Dawkins said. "But-and I wouldn't want this to get around-a very small percentage are genuine pricks. I think your man Schneider is one of them."

"I can handle him, Sir," Charley said.

"Well, that's what I came to find out. If he starts giving you trouble, let me know."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"He's over at Pearl with his uncle the admiral," Dawkins said. "I'm not sure if that's because they have a close-knit family or because he wanted me to know that his uncle is an admiral. But I told him he could go, and to be back at 0500. Will that cause any problems for you?"

"No, Sir."

Dawkins looked into Galloway's eyes for a moment, and then snorted. He swung his feet off the desk.

"You know what will cause a real problem for you, Captain?"

"Sir?"

"If I don't see you at the club tonight, really spiffy in your whites, having trouble with slurred speech and the other effects of alcohol."

"Well, Sir, that will cause a problem," Charley said. "While I'm sure my speech will probably get a little slurred as the night progresses, I hadn't planned to go to the club. I would really much rather not go to the club."

"I don't want to hear about it, Captain. Neither do I want to hear that, clear-eyed and bushy-tailed, you went anywhere near an airplane tomorrow."

"Aye, Aye, Sir."

"You've done a good job here, Charley," Dawkins said. "Christ, I didn't think you'd have eighteen operational aircraft for another two weeks."

"That's Big Steve, Sir, not me."

"Bullshit. But it raises a question. How much flying are you giving your people?"

"Sir?"

"How many hours a day are they flying?"

"No more than four, Sir."

"Do as I say, not as I do, right? Cut down your flying hours, Charley. I mean that."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"I've enjoyed our little chat, Captain," Dawkins said. "We must have another, real soon."

He walked to the door, opened it, and walked through. Lieutenant Ward and PFC Hastings came to attention. He walked past them, then stopped and turned, and went back to Hastings.