Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Good morning, Son,” the admiral said.

  “Good morning, Sir,” Moore replied.

  “First flight?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then you can reassure me,” the admiral said. “I am not wholly convinced that something this big is really meant to fly.”

  I will be damned. He really went out of his way to be nice to me.

  The sailor, a red-haired man in his late twenties who was obviously the crew chief, waited until all the passengers had come aboard and then passed out yellow, inflatable life preservers, first giving simple instructions about using them, and then checking the passengers to see that they had each put them on correctly.

  Then he climbed a ladder in the front of the fuselage. A moment later, the airplane shuddered as first one and then the second of its engines started. The plane immediately began to move, but with a curious motion that made Moore wonder for a moment if he was going to get seasick.

  Next, one at a time, the engines roared and then slowed to idle. Then they both revved together, and the seaplane began to pick up speed. The noise of the engines was deafening, and the noise was compounded by a series of metallic crashes as the hull encountered swells. Then suddenly there was only the sound of the engines, and the crashing of the hull against the water was gone.

  Through the window on the far side of the cabin, Moore saw that the float—there was one on each side—which had kept the wing from dipping into the water was retractable. As he watched, it moved upward and outward until it formed the tip of the wing.

  He turned in his seat and looked through the window behind him. They were already out over the Pacific. Some ships were visible, and the wakes of small boats; and then, suddenly, there was nothing outside the window but an impenetrable gray haze.

  “I am solemnly assured by my Naval Aviator friends,” the admiral said, “that the young men who drive these things are extensively trained in navigation.”

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  Moore put his head back against the metal wall of the fuselage.

  He had really had a good time the night before, he thought. And not only because Ernie Sage and Lieutenant McCoy had gone really out of their way to make him comfortable. More than that, they had made it sort of a party for him.

  And what he’d heard about the Marine Raiders had been fascinating. With obvious pride in what he was doing, Lieutenant Burnes had explained that they were sort of American Commandos whose mission it was to make surprise landings—raids, hence the name—on Japanese-held islands. The idea was not to capture the islands, but to blow up enemy installations and supplies, and then leave. That, Burnes said, would force the Japanese to station troops wherever they had supply depots or airfields so they could protect them from the Raiders, troops that otherwise could have been used to invade New Guinea or even Australia.

  As he went on, Burnes had mentioned on more than one occasion the 2nd Raider Battalion Commander, Major Evans Carlson, and Carlson’s executive officer, Captain James Roosevelt, who was the son of the President. Every time the names of these two came up, his voice dropped to nearly reverential tones.

  It was also pretty clear that Burnes was very impressed with the legendary Killer McCoy, who had taken out three Italian Marines with a knife, and then killed the Chinese bandits, and who had been wounded in the Philippines. So, Moore admitted, was he.

  Moore could also see that Lieutenant McCoy wasn’t quite so boyishly enthusiastic about the Raiders as Burnes was. McCoy never said so directly, and his face was in no way easy to read; but Moore sensed that as far as McCoy was concerned, the Raiders might as well be a gang of ten-year-old boys playing war games. At the same time, it was more than pretty clear to Moore that Burnes had no idea McCoy was involved with Intelligence. He wondered what McCoy was doing that had an Intelligence connection, but obviously he couldn’t ask.

  In fact there was no sense wondering what kind of Intelligence work McCoy was doing, or what he himself would be doing once he got to Australia. The only thing he knew about Intelligence was what he had learned watching spy movies, and McCoy was certainly not going to tell him what Intelligence was like in the real world.

  But it had really made him feel good to see how Lieutenant McCoy and Ernie and Lieutenant Burnes and his wife had behaved to each other.

  It would, he thought before he dozed off, be that way with Barbara when he came back. He would be an officer then, and maybe they could all get together and have a welcome home party.

  (Three)

  HEADQUARTERS

  MARINE AIR GROUP TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21)

  EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1105 HOURS 27 JUNE 1942

  “The Colonel will see you now, Sir,” the staff sergeant said.

  Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, hoisted himself out of a battered, upholstered armchair whose cushions had long ago lost their resiliency, nodded at the sergeant, walked to the commanding officer’s door, and rapped on the jamb with his knuckles.

  “Come,” Lieutenant Colonel Clyde G. Dawkins ordered.

  Galloway marched into the office, came to attention eighteen inches from Dawkins’s desk, and announced, “Captain Galloway reporting as ordered, Sir.”

  “Good morning, Captain, welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You get settled all right, Charley?”

  “I told the kid in the truck to take me to the NCO billet,” Galloway said.

  “Did you really?” Dawkins chuckled. “Well, I guess being an officer—a squadron commander—will take some getting used to. But I’m sure you can handle it, Charley. Stand at ease, for Christ’s sake. Sit down, as a matter-of-fact.”

  He pointed to an armchair, and Charley sat down. Its cushions were as exhausted as the cushions on the chair in the outer office.

  “Thank you, Sir. That was after he told me he’d never heard of VMF-229.”

  Dawkins laughed.

  “That’s because most of VMF-229 resides in Karl Lorenz’s desk drawer,” he said. “You remember Lorenz, of course?”

  “Yes, Sir. Sure.”

  “Right now VMF-229 consists of you, another officer, and eleven F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl Harbor, covered with all the protective crap they put on them when they ship them as deck cargo.”

  Galloway’s eyebrows rose.

  “What about men?”

  “Lorenz levied the other squadrons for personnel for you. They came up—after a lot of breast beating—with a list of sixteen enlisted men. Some of them are alleged to be mechanics, and there is an alleged clerk, an alleged truck driver, and an alleged arrnorer. None of them is more than a buck sergeant. You have authority, of course, to draw whatever equipment and personnel is authorized for a fighter squadron.”

  “How much of what is authorized is going to be available when I go try to draw it?”

  “Not much, Charley,” Dawkins said. “Supply is a little better than it was, but not much.”

  “What about pilots?”

  “Right now there’s two of you. They dribble in all the time. Sometimes one at a time on a courier plane, sometimes two dozen when a carrier or cruiser from ‘Diego or ’Frisco puts into Pearl, sometimes lately, three or four at a time on tin cans and merchantmen. As you get your planes operational, I’ll see that you have pilots. They won’t have much time, I’m afraid, they’ll be right out of Pensacola.”

  “Ouch,” Galloway said. “I’ve got some pilots, pretty good pilots, coming. General McInerney authorized me to steal five from Quantico and Pensacola.”

  “Only five?”

  “I sent him nine names. I didn’t have to ask for volunteers. When the word got out I was getting a squadron, people came looking for me. Everybody wants to get over here, even if it means being in a squadron commanded by a flying sergeant.”

  “Hold it right there, Captain,” Dawkins said sharply. He had just been thinking that Captain Charles M. Galloway looked like everything one expected a Ma
rine captain to look like. He was erect and trim, neatly barbered, in a well-fitting uniform. There was an aura of competence and command about him.

  “Sir?”

  “That’s the last time I ever want to hear you refer to yourself as a ‘flying sergeant,’ ” Dawkins said. “I don’t even want you thinking of yourself as a ‘flying sergeant.’ When you pinned those bars on, you stopped being a flying sergeant. Is that clear enough for you, Captain?”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Dawkins held Galloway’s eyes with his own for a long moment.

  “Scuttlebutt going around is that someone interesting personally gave you those bars, Charley. Anything to that story?”

  “Yes, Sir. They had me flying a VIP R4D out of Quantico. I’d just come back from a round robin, Pensacola, New River, Philadelphia, and back to Quantico. When I parked the airplane, the Operations Officer told me to report to the VIP quarters. I walked in expecting some congressman or movie star needing a ride, and what I got was the Commandant.”

  “No crap?”

  “Him and General McInerney. Five minutes later, I was a captain.”

  “Just like that?”

  “He gave me a little speech, Sir, that I won’t forget for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said that, acting on General McInerney’s recommendation, and against his own better judgment, he was going to give me captain’s bars, and that I goddamn well better forget thinking I was Errol Flynn or Ronald Reagan and start acting like a Marine captain.”

  “Sounds like sound advice,” Dawkins chuckled. “Christ, you really had the Navy mad at you. For a while, there was guilt by association.”

  “Sir?”

  “There was talk—serious talk—about court-martialing Lenny Martin for being conveniently absent when you flew that F4F out of here to rendezvous with Task Force XIV. ‘Dereliction of Duty’ was the way they put it.”

  Captain Leonard Martin had been the senior officer of VMF-211 present (and thus in command) when Galloway reported that he and the maintenance sergeant, Technical Sergeant Stefan “Big Steve” Oblensky, had repaired one of the shot-up F4Fs and that he intended to fly it out to the Saratoga.

  Captain Martin had reminded Tech Sergeant Galloway that BUAIR engineers had officially classified the F4F as totally destroyed and that therefore, it was obviously unsafe to fly. He had also pointed out that even if there had been an officially flyable aircraft available, orders would have to be issued before it could be flown anywhere. And obviously, since the location of Sara was a closely guarded secret, Tech Sergeant Galloway had a practically nonexistent chance of finding it.

  Quite unnecessarily, he had informed Tech Sergeant Galloway that his intended flight was against regulations and thus forbidden. And then, as he shook Tech Sergeant Galloway’s hand, he had mentioned idly, in passing, that he had business at Pearl Harbor and would not be at the airfield at the time Galloway said he wanted to take off.

  “Sir, is Captain Martin—still in trouble?”

  “Not anymore, Charley. He was shot down at Midway.”

  “Shit!” Galloway said bitterly, adding, “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “He was flying a goddamned Buffalo. We lost all of them but one.”

  “He was a good guy,” Galloway said, softly.

  “Most of them were,” Dawkins said.

  Galloway looked at him with a question in his eyes, and then put it in a word: “ ‘Most’?”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Dawkins said. “But I was thinking—speaking ill of the dead—that it is possible to be both a dead hero and a prick. But you’ve touched on something else that needs to be discussed.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Sir.”

  “The other officer presently assigned to VMF-229, Captain, is First Lieutenant, USMCR, William C. Dunn. He was also at Midway with VMF-211. Flying an F4F. He has—confirmed—both a Kate and a Zero.”

  “Dunn?” Galloway asked, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I remember ...”

  “Nice-looking young kid. He came aboard after you were returned to the States in such glory,” Dawkins said dryly. “He took what we think was a 20mm round, an explosive shell, in his windscreen. It almost turned him into a soprano. He managed to get the airplane back to Midway, totalling it on landing. It was full of holes, in addition to the 20mm, I mean.”

  “Sounds like a good man,” Charley said.

  “Very possibly he is,” Dawkins said carefully. “But there is some question, I’m afraid serious question, about whether he took the round that filled his crotch with shrapnel and fragments while he was engaging the enemy, or after he’d already decided to fly back to Midway.”

  “You’re saying he ran?”

  “Listen carefully. What I said was ‘serious question.’ The officer—there was more than one, but the officer who made the most serious accusations—decided, on reflection, not to bring charges against him.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I don’t think giving you his name would be appropriate,” Dawkins said.

  “What has ... you said ‘Dunn’? ... got to say for himself?”

  “Dunn says that he has no memory of flying back to Midway at all.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I believe that Dunn doesn’t remember flying back to Midway.”

  “How come I get this guy?”

  “I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt,” Dawkins said.

  Galloway started to say something and changed his mind. Dawkins saw it.

  “Say it, Charley.”

  “Nothing, Sir.”

  “Say it, Charley,” Dawkins repeated.

  “Actually, I was thinking two things, Sir. The first was that when a good Marine gets an order, even one he doesn’t think he can handle, he says ‘Aye, aye, Sir’ and does his best.”

  “You mean you don’t think you can handle a squadron?”

  “I can handle a squadron. But there are squadrons and squadrons, and it looks like mine is staffed with sixteen enlisted Marines who are almost certainly the ones their squadron commanders figured they could do without; plus pickled aircraft that I have to unpickle with somebody else’s rejects; plus, of course, an officer one jump ahead of a court-martial.”

  “Is that all one thought? You said you had two?”

  “I was thinking, Colonel, that you wouldn’t screw me unless you had no choice. But if the brass is making you set me up to fuck up so I can be relieved, why don’t we just jump to that? Give the squadron to somebody else, and just let me fly. I didn’t ask for the bars; all I ever wanted to do is fly fighters. I mean, I’ll take a bust back to sergeant ...”

  “That’s quite enough, Captain,” Dawkins said furiously. “Shut down your mouth. How dare you suggest, you sonofabitch, that I would be party to something like that?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Galloway said after a long moment, during which he realized that Dawkins was waiting for a response.

  “You’re going to have to learn, Galloway, to engage your brain before opening your mouth,” Dawkins said more calmly. “Just for your information, I was given the option of not giving you VMF-229. I’m giving it to you because you’re the best man I have available to take the job.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I wish I had an operational squadron I could just turn over to you, fully equipped with flyable aircraft, qualified mechanics, and whatever else is called for. I don’t. All I have to give you is what I told you, airplanes sitting on a wharf and a handful of half-trained kids to get them up and running. I’ll do my damnedest to get you anything else you think you need, but the shelves are pretty goddamned bare.”

  They looked at each other without speaking for a long moment.

  “Can I have Oblensky, Sir?”

  “What?”

  “Tech Sergeant Oblensky, Sir,” Galloway said. “I know he’s here. I asked.”

  Dawkins looked unhappy. He made three starts, stopping each time before a word le
ft his mouth, before asking, “Do you think it is a good idea, Captain, theoretically or practically, for a non-commissioned officer to be assigned to a squadron commanded by an officer with whom he served as a non-com? Who was his best pal when they were sergeants together?”

  “From what you’ve told me about the men you’re going to give me, Sir,” Galloway said, “I’ll either have to have Big Steve, or somebody like him, or get those airplanes flyable myself.”

  “Captain Galloway, if I hear that you have been seen with a wrench in your hand, you will spend the rest of this war with a wrench in your hand. Clear?”

  “Does that mean I get Oblensky, Sir?”

  “I finally have something in common with the Commandant, Galloway. Acting against my better judgment, I’m going to give you something I don’t think you should have.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “That will be all, Captain Galloway. Thank you.”

  VIII

  (One)

  HEADQUARTERS

  MARINE AIR GROUP TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21)

  EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1135 HOURS 27 JUNE 1942

  PFC Alfred B. Hastings, who was seventeen and had been in the Corps not quite five months, had just about finished drying with a chamois a glistening yellow 1933 Ford convertible coupe, when he noticed that his labor had attracted the attention of an officer.

  The Ford was parked in the shade of Hangar Three. When Hastings was finished, his orders were to return the car to the other side of the hangar, to a parking space lettered MAINTENANCE NCO.

  For a long moment, PFC Hastings pretended he did not see the officer, who was a captain and an aviator. He did that for two reasons. First, he had slipped out of the sleeves of his coveralls and tied them around his waist, which left him in his sleeveless undershirt and thus out of uniform. Second, despite the dedicated efforts of his drill instructors at the San Diego Recruit Depot to instill in him a detailed knowledge of the Customs of the Service as they applied to military courtesy, he was not sure what was now required of him.