W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps 03 - Counterattack

The drop was all-important. If that didn’t go well, nothing else would matter.

Actually, there was to be more than one drop for the press. At 1245, the first drop would show them how it was done. Then the R4D would land, taxi up to the press people, and take on another load of parachutists there. That would give the press people the opportunity to see how quickly and efficiently that was done.

Then the plane would take off, wait for the press people to move over to the actual drop zone, and then drop the second load of parachutists. This would give the press people a chance to see the parachutists landing.

Neville had earlier persuaded the Commanding Officer of Willow Grove Naval Air Station to let him have a pair of SJ6 Texans, which were low-winged, single-engined, two-seat trainers. While the R4D landed to take on still another load of parachutists, one of the two Texans would have taxied to where it could take aboard a Life photographer. The second Texan, carrying a Marine photographer equipped with a motion-picture camera, would by then already be in the air.

He would capture on film the Para-Marines exiting the door of the R4D. Individual prints made from that motion-picture film would be offered to Life, if they wanted them. After that the film would be made available to the newsreel companies.

So far as Lieutenant Colonel Neville could see, he and Lieutenant Macklin had covered all the bases.

When, as he asked them to, the Lakehurst Control Tower telephoned to report that a Marine R4D out of Willow Grove had just requested landing permission, he felt the situation was well in hand.

And then things, of course, promptly began to go wrong.

He went out to watch the R4D land. He liked the sight of it, gleaming in the sun of the crisp winter day, withmarines lettered along the fuselage. He wondered, for the future-it was too late to do anything about it now, of course-if he could arrange to have an aircraft letteredpara-marines. But then, as the aircraft turned off the runway and started to taxi toward the dirigible hangar, he saw that the port engine nacelle and the wing behind it were filthy. Absolutely filthy!

He started walking toward the spot where Lieutenant Macklin had marked out the parking space for the aircraft. He reached it moments after the airplane arrived, and he waited while the pilot turned it around. In order to do that, the pilot had to gun the starboard engine; when he did so, the prop blast caught some snow in its path and blew it all over Neville.

It wasn’t clean snow; it was mixed with dirt and parking-area debris, and it soiled Lieutenant Colonel Neville’s fresh green uniform. He was not in a very good mood when he stood by the door of the aircraft, waiting for the door to open.

A sergeant in coveralls looked at him curiously, and then dropped a ladder from holes in the bottom of the doorframe. Only then did he finally remember rudimentary military courtesy. Still not wearing suitable headgear, he saluted and said, "Good morning, Colonel."

"Inform the pilot that I would like to see him. I’m Colonel Neville."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the crew chief said, and disappeared inside the aircraft.

In a moment, a good-looking young man appeared; he was wearing a fur-collared jacket with Naval Aviator’s wings. Hat-less. But he at least looked like a Marine, Neville thought, and acted like one.

"Good morning, Sir," he said, saluting crisply; he held it until Neville returned it. Only then did he start climbing down the ladder. "Are you Colonel Neville, Sir?" Neville nodded. "I was told to report to you, Sir."

"Your airplane is dirty," Colonel Neville said.

"Sir?"

"The port engine nacelle and wing. They’re filthy!"

The pilot looked surprised and went to look.

"Don’t you have a uniform cap?" Neville called after him.

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir," the pilot said. He took a fore-and-aft cap from the pocket of his leather jacket and put it on.

An enlisted man’s cap! That goddamned Hershberger knows how important a mission this is to me and to the Para-Marines, and he’s sent me a goddamned Flying Sergeant!

Neville walked to the wing.

"Sir, they drained the oil at Willow Grove. I guess they spilled a little, and it picked up crud from the taxiway and runway," Charley Galloway said.

"Well, have it cleaned up," Neville said. "We don’t want Life’s readers to think the Marine Corps tolerates filthy aircraft, do we?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Tell me, Sergeant, does Colonel Hershberger routinely send noncoms on missions of this importance?"

"I don’t think, Sir, that the Colonel had any qualified officer pilots to send."

That’s so much bullshit and we both know it.Goddamn Hershberger!

"Colonel, I have two lieutenants on board," Galloway said, adding, "pilots, I mean."

"Then where are they? I told your crew chief I wanted to speak to the pilot."

"Sir, I’m pilot-in-command."

"How can that be, Sergeant?" Neville said, making what he recognized to be a valiant effort not to jump all over the sergeant. He was a sergeant; he was just doing what he was told. "With officer pilots, how can you be in command?"

"Colonel Hershberger set it up that way, Sir."

"Would you tell the officers I would like a word with them, Sergeant, please?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Lieutenants Ward and Schneider were standing on the ground beside the rear door when Charley Galloway went to fetch them.

"Colonel Neville would like to see you, gentlemen," he said loudly, and added softly, "Watch yourselves. He’s got his balls in an uproar about something."

Lieutenant Schneider gave Galloway a withering look, and then saluted Colonel Neville as he appeared.

"Which of you is senior?" Neville asked.

"I believe I am, Sir," Jim Ward said.

"Jack," Galloway said to the crew chief, "will you get the crud off the port nacelle and wing?"

"What the hell for?" the crew chief replied. "The minute we start to taxi through this shit, it’ll get dirty again."

"Do me a favor, Jack," Galloway said, nodding his head toward Neville. "Do what you can to clean it up."

Neville felt his temper rise. An order had been given. Instead of carrying it out, the recipient had replied "What the hell for?" And instead of immediately correcting the man on the spot, the response was "Do me a favor." And all of this with two commissioned officers watching and doing or saying nothing.

These people, none of them, are Marines. They’re goddamned civilians wearing Marine uniforms!

"Then, Lieutenant, may I presume you’re in charge of this aircraft?"

"No, Sir."

" ‘No, Sir’?" Neville echoed incredulously. "Are you qualified to fly this aircraft or not?"

"I’m checked out in the R4D, Sir. Yes, Sir."

"Then, according to the Customs of the Service, since you are the senior officer present," Neville pursued icily, "doesn’t it then follow that you are in charge of this aircraft?"

"Sir, Colonel Hershberger, the Chief of Staff, 1stMarine Air Wing-"

"I know who Colonel Hershberger is, Mr. Ward," Neville interrupted him.

"Sir, Colonel Hershberger appointed Sergeant Galloway as pilot-in-command," Ward said uncomfortably.

"I never heard of such a thing!" Neville exploded.

"Sir," Galloway said, "I’ve got more experience in the R4D than either of these officers. I believe, considering the importance of this mission, that that’s what Colonel Hershberger had in mind."

"Are you in the habit of offering your opinions before they’re solicited, Sergeant?" Neville flared.

"No, Sir, sorry, Sir."

There was the sound of aircraft engines. Charley Galloway’s eyes rose involuntarily toward the sky and confirmed what his ears had told him: Pratt and Whitney Wasp, probably the six-hundred-horse R1340-49. More than one.