Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 09 - Under Fire

"And you got away with it?" Ernie asked. "You flew un-der the bridge, and got away with it?"

"I was a newly rated Marine aviator," Pick said. "With probably two hundred hours' total time, and therefore con-vinced I could fly anything anywhere..."

"By the skin of his teeth," McCoy said, "and with the considerable assistance of Senator Fowler."

"I don't like the look in your eyes, Pick," Ernie said. "Nothing smart-ass with the airplane today, Okay?"

"Nothing could possibly be further from my mind," Pick said, smiling wickedly.

"She means it, Pick," McCoy said. "Nothing cute with the airplane."

Pick looked at McCoy, surprised at his seriousness.

"Ernie's pregnant," McCoy said. "This is the fourth time; the first three didn't-"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Pick said. "Jesus, Ernie, you didn't say anything...."

"The first time, I told everybody, and everybody was re-ally sympathetic when I miscarried," Ernie said. "Like it says, `once is enough.'"

"You're the only one who knows," McCoy said. "Don't make us sorry we told you."

Pick looked between the two of them for a moment.

"Would congratulations be in order?"

"Nice thought," Ernie said. "But a little premature. Wait six months, and have another shot at it."

[THREE]

NORTH ISLAND NAVAL AIR STATION

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

1400 8 JUNE 1950

"North Island," Pick Pickering said into his microphone. "Beech Two Oh Two."

Pick was wearing a flamboyantly flowered Hawaiian shirt, yellow slacks, and loafers without socks.

Ernie McCoy was sitting beside him, wearing a dress. Pick had refused, considering her delicate condition, to let her defer to the rule that men sat in the front of a vehicle- wheeled or winged-and women in the back. McCoy, wearing his uniform, was in the back with the luggage that wouldn't fit in the baggage compartment.

"Civilian aircraft calling North Island. Go ahead."

Ernie could hear the conversation over her headset.

"North Island, this is Beech Two Oh Two, VFR at 4,500 over the beautiful blue drink, about ten miles north of your station, request approach and landing, please."

"Beach Two Oh Two, North Island is a Navy field, closed to civilian traffic. Suggest you contact Lindbergh Field on 214.6."

"North, Two Oh Two, suggest you contact whoever has the exception to the rules book, and then give me approach and landing."

"Hold One, Two Oh Two."

There was a sixty-second pause.

`Two Oh Two, North."

"Go ahead."

"North clears Beech Two Oh Two to descend to 2,500 feet for an approach to Runway One Eight. Report when you have the field in sight."

"Roger. Understand 2,500, Runway One Eight. Begin-ning descent at this time."

"Aircraft in the North pattern, be advised that a civilian single Beech biplane will be in the landing pattern."

"North, Two Oh Two, at 2,500, course one eight zero, I have the runway in sight."

`Two Oh Two, North. You are cleared as number one for a straight-in approach and landing on Runway One Eight. Be advised that high-performance piston-and-jet aircraft are operating in the area."

"North, Two Oh Two, understand Number One to One Eight. I am over the outer marker."

"Two Oh Two, North. Be advised that Lieutenant Colonel Dunn will meet your aircraft at Base Ops."

"Thank you, North."

There was no headset in the back of the Staggerwing, and McCoy had not heard the conversation between the North Island control tower and Pick Pickering. And because he was in the rear of the fuselage, when the airplane stopped and he heard the engine dying, he reached over, unlatched the door, and backed out of the airplane. When his feet touched the ground, he turned around and was more than a little startled to see a light colonel standing there wearing the gold wings of a Naval aviator, a chest full of fruit salad, and a displeased look on his face that, combined with the fact he had his hands on his hips, suggested he was dis-pleased with something.

Probably Pick. This is a Naval air station, and you're not supposed to land civilian airplanes on Naval air stations.

Captain McCoy did the only thing he could think to do under the circumstances. He saluted crisply and said, "Good afternoon, sir."

At that point, recognition, belatedly, dawned. It had been a long time.

Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, who car-ried 138 pounds on his slim, five-foot-six frame, returned the salute crisply.

"How are you, McCoy?" he asked, and then stepped around McCoy to assist Mrs. McCoy in leaving the aircraft.

"Oh, Bill," Ernie said. "What a-pleasant surprise!"

"You're as beautiful as ever," Lieutenant Colonel Dunn said, "and as careless as ever about the company you keep."

Pick Pickering got out of the airplane.

"Wee Willy!" he cried happily, wrapped his arms around Lieutenant Colonel Dunn, and kissed him wetly on the forehead.

Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had been First Lieutenant William C. Dunn's wingman, in VMF-229, flying Grumman Wildcats off of Fighter One, on Guadalcanal. They had become aces within days of one another. Dunn had gone on to become a double ace. The Navy Cross, the nation's second-highest award for valor in the Naval service, topped Dunn's four rows of fruit salad.

Dunn freed himself from Pickering's embrace.

"You're a disgrace to the Marine Corps," Dunn said, fail-ing to express the indignation he felt was called for, but did not in fact feel. "My God, you're not even wearing socks!"

"I don't have a loving wife and helpmeet to care for me," Pick said. "How's the bride?"

"About to make me a father for the fourth time," Dunn said, "and unaware I'm on this side of the country."

"What are you doing here-on this side of the coun-try-and here?"

"Here," Dunn said, gesturing to indicate the airfield, or maybe southern California, "because I need to borrow, beg, or, ultimately, steal Corsair parts from our brothers in the Navy, and here here"-he pointed at the ground- "because when I landed I called the Coronado to see if you might be in town, and they said you were expected about now. So I checked with Base Ops to see if they had an inbound Corsair. The AOD was all upset about some civilian airplane about to land. I knew it had to be you."

"As a token of the Navy's respect for the Marine Corps re-serve, I have permission to land here in connection with my re-serve duties," Pick said. "It's all perfectly legal, Colonel, sir."

"I've heard that before," Dunn said.

"Ken's reporting into Pendleton," Pick said. "We all just came from Japan-and on the way over, immodesty com-pels me to state, I set a new record...."

"The most violently airsick passengers on one airplane in the history of commercial aviation?" Dunn asked, innocently.

McCoy laughed.

"Those who have nothing to boast about mock those who do," Pickering said, piously. "But since you ask, there is a new speed record to Japan."

"Inspired, no doubt, by a platoon of angry husbands chasing the pilot?" Dunn said.

McCoy laughed again.

"You understand, Ernie," Pickering said, as if sad and mystified, "that these two-Sarcastic Sam and Laughing Boy-are supposed to be my best friends?"

"The way I heard it, they're your only friends," Ernie said.

"Et tu, Brutus?" Pick said.

Dunn laughed, then turned to McCoy.

"What are they going to have you doing at Pendleton, Ken?" Dunn asked.

"I really don't know, Colonel," McCoy replied.

Dunn didn't press McCoy. As long as Dunn had known him-and he had met him on Guadalcanal-he had been involved in classified operations of one kind or another that couldn't be talked about.

"Captain McCoy," Pick said. "If you would be so kind, go into Base Ops and call us a cab while the colonel and I tie down the airplane. We have to eat, and the food is much better at the Coronado Beach than in the O Club here."