Well, fuck you both! I went through my fair share of the pop-to-attention, shine-the-heels-of-your-shoes chickenshit bullshit at Quantico myself, and nothing that’s happened to me since has made me change my mind. It was unnecessary bullshit then, and it is now.
“Here is your cover, Mr. Pickering,” Carstairs said.
“Thank you, Sir,” Pick said, and took the cover and put it on.
“Mr. Larsen, are you aware of the history of the corded ropes on the upper portion of covers such as these?” Pick asked.
“Sir, they identify commissioned officers of The Corps, Sir.”
“I heard a most interesting variation of that, Mr. Larsen…”
Carstairs is glowering at me. Fuck him!
“…from a Marine officer…a career Marine officer…who already wears two Purple Hearts for wounds suffered in this war; he was an officer in the Marine Raiders during the raid on Makin Island; and most recently he was involved in a Top Secret operation rescuing two Marines who were trapped on an enemy-held island. Would you be interested in hearing what this distinguished officer of the Regular Marine Corps told me about the knotted ropes on commissioned officers’ caps, Mr. Larsen?”
“Sir, yes, Sir, I would, Sir.”
“May I proceed, Sir? Is Mr. Larsen close enough to joining our officer corps that he may be entrusted with this hoary lore?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Pickering,” Carstairs said.
“Killer McCoy told me, Mr. Larsen, that the ropes date back to the days when Marines served aboard sailing ships. The first ropes, according to McCoy, were sewn onto officers’ covers so that Marine marksmen aloft in the rigging could safely shoot chickenshit officers in the head, and not some good Marine by mistake.”
Lieutenant Dunn laughed. Mr. Larsen looked very uncomfortable. After a valiant effort not to, Captain Carstairs smiled.
“Oh, God, Pickering!” he said. “I should have expected something like that from you.”
“Did Captain Carstairs tell you that I taught him to fly, Mr. Larsen?”
“Sir, no, Sir. He did not, Sir.”
“Just to keep the record straight, Mr. Larsen, I taught him how to fly,” Carstairs said, not quite succeeding in keeping himself from laughing.
“Whatever you say, Sir,” Pickering said.
“Mr. Dunn,” Carstairs said, “Mr. Larsen has informed me that he would consider it a privilege if you were to permit him to drive your personal automobile to Corey Field. I told him I felt sure you would grant him that privilege.”
Well, that explains what the kid is doing here; Carstairs wants us in the staff car with him.
“Sure,” Dunn said, and then had a second thought. “Can you drive an automatic shift? That’s my mother’s car, all the new gadgets.”
Larsen’s face fell.
“Sir, no, Sir, I never drove a car with an automatic shift, Sir.”
“Show him how, Dunn,” Carstairs ordered.
“You just put it in ‘R’ for ‘Race’ and step on the gas,” Pick offered helpfully.
“God, you must really want to be a basic flight instructor, Mr. Pickering,” Carstairs said.
“I’d forgotten about that,” Pick said. “I am now on my very best behavior.”
“You’d better be, when we get over there,” Carstairs said.
“OK,” Pick said.
“I had dinner with Martha last night. She was disgustingly pleased to hear that you were safely home. I think she expects you to call her. Have you?”
“No. I told you. She’s made herself pretty clear about how she feels about me. I don’t see any point in calling her.”
“Suit yourself, Pick,” Carstairs said.
Dunn came back.
“He can handle the car all right,” he said. “When it works, any idiot can do it.”
“When it works?”
“It broke when my mother was driving over the causeway to Mobile; just refused to move another inch. It’s supposed to have been fixed.”
“Well, he’ll be following us,” Carstairs said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. You ride in the front, Pickering. Dunn and I will ride in the back.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
[FIVE]
Corey Field
Escambia County, Florida
0820 Hours 2 November 1942
Because he had a good view from the front seat of the car, Pickering saw the four Grumman F4F4 Wildcats almost from the moment the Plymouth passed inside the gate.
And he instantly understood what they were doing there. They were props in a bullshit session. He had gone through much the same thing himself, once upon a time. Aviation cadets (or in his and Dick Stecker’s case, student officers) were gathered someplace shortly after reporting aboard, and a couple of fighters or dive-bombers were flown in from someplace and put on display: This is what you will be privileged to fly if you work ever so hard and shine your shoes properly and don’t kill yourself in a Yellow Peril learning how.
He was surprised that the Plymouth headed in the direction of the Wildcats. Two of them were parked nose to nose, in front of bleachers…as though they were on a stage, or were part of a classroom display. The other two were parked to one side, on the grass between the ramp and a runway. As they drove closer, he saw that the bleachers were full of Naval Aviation cadets. Some of these were in flight suits, and some were in their sailor suits. There were only a few Marines.
Of course there’s only a few Marines, stupid! We’re always outnumbered at least ten to one by the goddamned Navy. I wonder what the hell is going on here. There’s an admiral’s flag, and a staff car to go with it, and I’ll be damned, a little tent. I’ll bet they put up the tent so the Admiral can take a piss without having to walk a hundred yards. It must be a graduation ceremony or something.
The Plymouth headed right for the other staff car and pulled up beside it.
What the hell is this?
“Out, gentlemen,” Carstairs ordered from the rear seat.
The door of the Plymouth beside them was opened by a white hat. An admiral stepped out, and then Colonel Porter got out the other side.
Captain Carstairs saluted.
“Good morning, Admiral,” he said. “May I present, Sir, Lieutenant William C. Dunn and Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering?”
“Lieutenant Dunn, I consider it an honor to make your acquaintance,” Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, USN, said, offering his hand. Then he turned to Lieutenant Pickering and put his arm around his shoulders as he shook his hand.
“Welcome home, Pick,” Martha Sayre Culhane’s father said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Pick said.
Dunn and Colonel Porter looked at them with wide eyes.
“How have you set this up, Porter?” Admiral Sayre asked.
“Captain Carstairs will go out there whenever you’re ready, Admiral. Attention on deck will be called. Captain Carstairs will then introduce you. We will then proceed to the microphone, with Dunn following you, and Pickering following Dunn. The three of us will take our seats.”
“Where’s the band? Why isn’t the band here?”
“They had a commitment elsewhere, Sir, I’m afraid,” Colonel Porter replied.
“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now,” Admiral Sayre said somewhat petulantly. “But the band should have been here.”
“Sorry, Sir,” Colonel Porter said.
“OK. Let’s get rolling,” Admiral Sayre ordered.
As Captain Carstairs marched out to a lectern set up on a small stage, the others formed in line behind Admiral Sayre. Colonel Porter was next, and he was followed by Dunn, Pickering, and Admiral Sayre’s aide-de-camp, a Lieutenant J. G., who was carrying a manila envelope.
Carstairs reached the microphone.
“Attention on deck!” he ordered, his voice amplified over a loudspeaker system. Everybody in the bleachers came to attention…including, Pick noticed, four guys in flight suits sitting at the end
of the bleachers in the front row.
The guys who flew the Wildcats in, he decided. They are almost certainly as deeply impressed with this bullshit as I am.
“Gentlemen,” Carstairs’s amplified voice announced, “Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, U.S. Navy.”
Admiral Sayre immediately started to march to the platform. The others followed. Pick became aware that Dunn, ahead of him, was going through the little shuffle known as “getting in step.” He realized that he was doing the same thing.
A Pavlovian reflex, he thought. It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, it is indelibly engraved on your brain. When the occasion arises you do it, just like one of Pavlov’s goddamned dogs.
Admiral Sayre marched toward the lectern. Colonel Porter then led the others toward a row of folding chairs while Sayre’s aide marched up and stood behind Admiral Sayre. A moment later, Sayre glanced over his shoulder to see that everyone was where they were supposed to be.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Admiral Sayre said to the microphone.
Three hundred male voices responded, “Good morning, Sir!”
“Take your seats, please,” Admiral Sayre ordered.
Cooling metal in the engine of the Wildcat behind Pick creaked. Without thinking about it, he looked over his shoulder. The first thing he thought was, Jesus, it’s brand-new. Or at least it’s been superbly maintained. They even polished the sonofabitch.
Then he noticed that someone had painted miniature Japanese flags—a red circle on a white background—below the canopy. There were six of them: a row of five, and then a sixth meatball under the first meatball in the top row.
Now, what’s that bullshit supposed to mean? We didn’t paint meatballs on our airplanes. Nobody had his own airplane. We flew anything Big Steve could fix up well enough to get it in the air. Who is this asshole, flying a polished airplane around the States with meatballs painted on it?
Then he saw the neat lettering above the meatballs: 1/LT M. S. PICKERING, USMCR.
He switched his eyes to the other Wildcat, which was parked with its nose next to this one. There were two rows of meatballs painted on the fuselage below the canopy, ten in all, and 1/LT W. C. DUNN, USMCR was neatly lettered above them.
Jesus H. Christ!
“Gentlemen,” Admiral Sayre began his little talk, “I’m going to tell you something about our brothers in The Marine Corps. If you have not yet learned this, you should keep it in mind during your Naval service. When they get their hands on something valuable, they very rarely offer to share it with their brothers in the Navy.”
There was the expected laughter.
“In this case, when I learned that Colonel Porter had his hands on something valuable, I decided to invite the Navy to his party, in case doing so himself might slip his mind.”
There was more expected laughter.
Pick glanced at the bleachers and noticed a Navy cadet staring at him as if he gave milk. He quickly turned his gaze at another Navy cadet. He, too, was staring at him. He then dropped his eyes to the stage.
“Another hint, if you will permit me, that will certainly prove valuable to you in your later careers: If you have to teach somebody something, and you want it to stick in the minds of your students, you go seek out the most qualified expert you can find and have him teach what he knows. Colonel Porter is familiar with this principle of instruction and has brought two such experts with him here today.”
He held his hand out to his aide, who put two sheets of paper in it. Admiral Sayre held them down on the lectern and began to read:
“Navy Department, Washington, D.C. 24 October 1942. Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross. By Direction of the President of the United States, the Distinguished Flying Cross is awarded to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. Citation: During the period 14 August-16 October 1942, while assigned to VMF-229, then engaged in combat against the enemy in the vicinity of Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands, Lieutenant Pickering demonstrated both extraordinary professional skill and great personal valor. Almost daily engaging in aerial combat against the enemy, who almost invariably outnumbered Lieutenant Pickering and his fellow pilots by a factor of at least five to one, flying aircraft so ravaged by battle that only the exigencies of the situation permitted their use, Lieutenant Pickering’s professional skill and complete disregard of his personal safety contributed materially to the successful defense of the Guadalcanal perimeter. During this period he downed four Japanese Zero aircraft, one Japanese Kate aircraft, and one Japanese Betty aircraft. Entered the Naval Service from California.”
Before the Admiral began reading, there was rustling and whispered conversation in the bleachers. Now there was absolute silence.
Admiral Sayre then began to read from the second sheet of paper:
“Navy Department, Washington, D.C. 24 October 1942. Award of the Navy Cross. By Direction of the President of the United States, the Navy Cross is awarded to First Lieutenant William Charles Dunn, USMCR. Citation: On 4 June 1942, while serving with VMF-221 during the Battle of Midway, Lieutenant Dunn, facing an enemy force which outnumbered his and his comrades’ by a factor of at least ten to one, with complete disregard for his personal safety, during a battle which saw the loss of ninety percent of his squadron, downed two Japanese Zero and one Japanese Kate aircraft. Lieutenant Dunn relentlessly attacked and downed the second Japanese Zero aircraft despite serious and painful wounds from Japanese 20mm cannon fire, which destroyed his aircraft canopy and many of his aircraft instruments and left him partially blinded and in great pain. He then successfully flew his severely damaged aircraft to Midway Island and effected a wheels-up landing.
“During the period 14 August-16 October 1942, while serving as Executive Officer, VMF-229, then engaged in combat against the enemy in the vicinity of Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands, Lieutenant Dunn demonstrated both extraordinary professional skill and great personal valor, which combined with his leadership skills to inspire his subordinates. Almost daily leading his men into aerial combat against the enemy, who almost invariably outnumbered the pilots of VMF-229 by a factor of at least five to one, Lieutenant Dunn’s professional skill, complete disregard of his own personal safety, and magnificent leadership skills were an inspiration to his men and contributed materially to the successful defense of the Guadalcanal perimeter. During this period he frequently assumed command of his squadron in the absence of the squadron commander, and downed three Japanese Zero aircraft, two Japanese Kate aircraft, and two Japanese Betty aircraft. Lieutenant Dunn’s valor in action, above and beyond the call of duty, his superb leadership, and his superior professional skills reflect great credit upon himself, the United States Marine Corps, and the Naval Service. Entered the Naval Service from Alabama.”
At the word “Alabama” there came sort of an Indian war cry from the bleachers.
“Gentlemen,” Admiral Sayre went on, electing to ignore the Indian war cry, “I think you will agree with me when I say that Colonel Porter has brought here today two masters of the two crafts you are attempting to learn, piloting airplanes and serving as officers of the Naval Service. Lieutenant Dunn has a few words he would like to say, and then we are going to see a demonstration of their flying skills. Lieutenant Dunn, would you please come up here?”
Bill Dunn, who was visibly uncomfortable and clearly would have preferred to be anywhere but where he found himself, walked to the lectern.
Well, I’m sorry about that, Billy Boy. But better thee than me. And they don’t want to hear from me. All I have is the lousy DFC. This’ll teach you to be a fucking Navy Cross hero!
As Dunn stepped before the microphone, he was racked by a coughing fit. This lasted a good thirty seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint, harsh, and strained.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s good to be back at P’Cola. And I want to say that I know the only reason I am back is because of my instructor pilots when I went through here. As you can hear, I’m in no shape to talk much. But Lieutena
nt Pickering would, I am sure, be happy to say a few words and answer whatever questions you might have. I don’t mind saying that he is the finest pilot I have seen, except for Captain Charles M. Galloway, our squadron commander. Would you come up here, please, Mr. Pickering?”
XIV
[ONE]
Corey Field
Escambia County, Florida
1025 Hours 2 November 1942
It turned out that First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was wrong about the tent to the side of the bleachers: It wasn’t there to provide the Admiral with a convenient place to void his bladder. Instead, in keeping with the general theatricality of the whole affair, it was a dressing room for the actors involved in the melodrama being presented for the fledgling birdmen. When he went inside, he saw that it contained three chairs, a pipe-iron rack from which hung three flight suits, and a full-length mirror.
Two of the Suits, Flying, Winter, were brand new; each of these had a leather patch over the breast, on which was stamped in gold representations of Naval Aviator’s wings. Above one of the wings, Pickering’s name was sewn, while Dunn’s name was sewn above the other. The other suit belonged to Lieutenant Colonel J. Danner Porter, USMC. It was not quite new, but it was spotless and holeless and shipshape.
They were accompanied into the tent by Captain J. J. O’Fallon, USMC. Captain O’Fallon, a heavyset redhead, was the squadron commander of VMF-289, which was based at the Memphis Naval Air Station, Millington, Tennessee. In exchange for flying four of his Wildcats (two of them suitably painted up for the occasion with meatballs and Pickering’s and Dunn’s names) from Memphis in the early morning hours, Captain O’Fallon was going to be granted the great privilege of joining Colonel Porter in engaging the two aces in mock aerial combat.
Pick’s first thought when he saw the brand-new flight suits was to wonder if there were any more around here, and if so, how he could steal them. His fellow pilots of VMF-229 had been almost pathetically grateful when he returned with the boxes of RAAF flight suits he stole at Port Moresby, New Guinea; theirs were literally in tatters.
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