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

A white-jacketed, smiling Filipino messboy had the front door of Admiral Wagam's quarters open even before Lieutenant Greyson could put his finger on the highly polished brass door bell.

Greyson waved Dawkins and Galloway through the door.

"I'll tell the Admiral you're here, gentlemen," he said, and went to the closed door to the study and knocked.

In a moment, Admiral Wagam emerged, carrying a leather briefcase.

"Lock that up, will you please, Dick?" he said, as he handed the briefcase to his aide-de-camp.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Gentlemen," Admiral Wagam said, smiling at Dawkins and Charley. "Welcome. I'm glad you were able to come tonight."

"Very good of you to have us, Sir," Dawkins said.

"Dick's been telling me, Colonel, that you and his brother are classmates."

"Yes, Sir. '32."

"I'm '22," the admiral said, and turned to Galloway.

"And the famous-or is it infamous-Captain Galloway. I've been looking forward to meeting you, Captain. I was present, Captain, for the famous 'Q.E.D.' remark."

"Sir?" Galloway asked, wholly confused.

"I was in Admiral Shaughn's office when word came that you were flying that F4F out to the Saratoga. Captain Anderson of BUAIR [Bureau of Aeronautics] was there, sputtering with rage. He said, 'Admiral, this simply can't be. My people have certified all of VMF-211's aircraft as totally destroyed.' And Admiral Shaughn replied, 'Quod erat demonstrandum, Captain, Quod erat demonstrandum.' What made it even more hilarious was that Anderson didn't have any Latin, and it had to be translated for him."

"Yes, Sir," Charley said, still wholly confused.

"He didn't know that 'Quod erat demonstrandum'meant 'the facts speak for themselves'?" Dawkins asked. "Really?"

You made that translation for me, Charley realized. Thank you, Skipper.

"He hadn't the foggiest idea what it meant," Admiral Wagam said, chuckling. "And he gave an entirely new meaning to the word 'ambivalent.' Like everybody else... Anderson is really a nice fellow, personally... he was hoping that Galloway would make it onto Sara. But on the other hand, if he did, in an airplane Anderson's BUAIR experts had certified was damaged beyond any possibility of repair, he was going to look like a fool:"

Admiral Wagam laughed out loud. "Which Galloway did, of course, making him look like a fool. No wonder BUAIR was so angry with you, Galloway. Well, it turned out all right in the end, didn't it? All's well that ends well, as they say."

"Yes, Sir," Charley said.

"Let's go in the living room and have a drink," Admiral Wagam said. "I've been looking for an excuse since three o'clock."

A small, pudgy Filipino messboy in a starched white jacket was waiting for them behind a small, well-stocked bar. Through an open door, Charley saw a dining room table set with crystal and silver. A silver bowl filled with gardenias was in the center of the table.

"We've got just about anything you might want," the Admiral said, "but Carlos makes a splendid martini, and I've always felt that a martini is just the thing to whet the appetite before roast beef."

"A martini seems a splendid notion, Admiral," Dawkins said.

"Yes, Sir," Charley said.

"Four of your best, Carlos, please," the admiral ordered. "And I suggest you have a reinforcement readily available."

I could learn to like living like this, Charley thought. But this was instantly followed by two somewhat disturbing second thoughts: Jesus, Caroline's house in Jenkintown is bigger than this. And so is Jim Ward's parents' house. And compared to the apartment on the top floor-the penthouse- of the Andrew Foster Hotel, this place-this Admiral's Quarters-is a dump.

Carlos filled four martini glasses from a silver shaker, and the Admiral passed them around.

The Admiral raised his glass, and looking right at Charley, said, "To youth, gentlemen. To the foolish things young men do with the best of intentions."

"Admiral," Colonel Dawkins said, "with respect, I would prefer to drink to the wise elders who keep foolish, well-intentioned young men out of trouble."

"Colonel, I normally dislike having my toasts altered, especially by a Marine, but by God, I'll drink to that," Admiral Wagam said, taking a sip and beaming at Dawkins.

Charley and Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson dutifully sipped at their martinis.

"So you have the feeling, do you, Colonel..." Admiral Wagam said, interrupting himself to turn to the messboy: "Splendid, Carlos. Splendid."

"Thank you, Admiral," Carlos beamed.

"... that senior officers rarely get the appreciation they should," Admiral Wagam went on, "for-how should I put this?-tempering the enthusiasm of the young men for whom they are responsible?"

"Yes, Sir," Dawkins beamed. "I was just this afternoon having a conversation with Captain Galloway about his excessive enthusiasm for flying."

"At the expense of his duties as commanding officer, you mean?"

"No, Sir. I can't fault Captain Galloway's command. What I was trying to do was point out that all work and no play makes good squadron commanders lousy squadron commanders."

The Admiral grunted. "There was a study, a couple of years back, Medical Corps did it on the quiet. They found out that a newly appointed destroyer captain on his first voyage as skipper averaged five point three hours sleep at night. A man, especially an officer in command, can't function without a decent night's sleep. There's such a thing as too much devotion to duty, Galloway. You listen to Colonel Dawkins."

"Yes, Sir."

"That sleep requirement apparently doesn't apply to aides, Admiral?" Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson asked.

"Aides have very little to do," the Admiral replied. "They can get their necessary sleep while standing around with their mouths shut." He put his arm around Greyson's shoulders. "I learned that from a distinguished sailor, Mr. Greyson. Your father. I was his aide when he told me that."

A second messboy appeared in the door to the dining room.

"Excuse me," he said. "Admiral, dinner is served."

"Hold it just a moment, Enrique," Admiral Wagam said. "I need another one of Carlos's martinis."

Charley glanced at Dawkins. Dawkins, just barely perceptibly, shrugged his shoulders, signifying that he had no idea what the hell this was all about, either.

The admiral passed out four fresh martinis.

"Let me offer another toast," he said. "Prefacing it with the observation that, obviously, it is not for dissemination outside this room. To the officers and men of VMF-229, who will sail from Pearl Harbor aboard the escort carrier Long Island two August. May God give you a smooth voyage and good hunting."

"Hear, hear," Colonel Dawkins and Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson said, almost in unison.

"Thank you," Charley said.

"Although I am afraid he sometimes qualifies as one of the foolish, overly enthusiastic young men we were talking about a moment ago, my nephew tells me that VMF-229 is the best fighter squadron in Marine Aviation. Do you think I should believe him, Captain?"

"Sometimes even foolish young men have it right, Admiral," Charley said.

"Is that another example of that famous Marine modesty, Captain?" Admiral Wagam asked, as he put his hand on Charley's arm and led him into the dining room.

"A simple statement of facts, Sir," Charley said.

The admiral took his seat at the head of the table and pointed to the chair where Charley was to sit. Dawkins went to the far end of the table. Greyson sat across from Charley.

"I'm a little surprised you haven't asked where you're going," Admiral Wagam said.

"Sir, I thought that would be classified," Charley said.

"It is, of course," Wagam said. "And I suppose that disqualifies you as a foolish young man. Only a foolish young man would ask, right?"