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.
There were two North American Texans in the landing pattern.
"There are my other aircraft," Colonel Neville announced. "Mr. Ward, will you give my compliments to their pilots, and ask them to join me in my office as soon as possible? And bring this officer and the sergeant with you."
(Two)
The shit,thought Technical Sergeant Charles Galloway, is about to hit the fan.
He rose, very reluctantly, to his feet.
"You have a question, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin asked. He had just finished explaining, with the help of a blackboard and a pointer, where the Texans would fly relative to the R4D, so that the still and motion-picture photographers could capture the Para-Marines jumping from the R4D’s door.
"Sir, that would be dangerous," Charley said.
"Would it, now?" Macklin asked, smiling but sarcastic.
"Sir, one aircraft flying close to the R4D is dangerous enough. Two are too dangerous."
"Would you care to explain your position?"
"Yes, Sir. I’ll be flying the R4D-"
"That hasn’t been decided yet," Lieutenant Colonel Neville said.
"Sir, whoever is flying the R4D will have enough trouble keeping his eye on one Texan. It would impossible to keep an eye on both of them, if they were flying close enough to take pictures."
"And?" Macklin asked, now clearly sarcastic. "Are you suggesting that they would fly into you, Sergeant?" He looked at the two Texan pilots, both lieutenants junior grade, and smiled at them. "I’m sure these officers are skilled enough not to do that."
"I’m more concerned about dropping the paratroops-"
"Para-Marines,"Colonel Neville said.
"-into the flight path of one of the Texans," Charley finished.
"That’s our concern, Sergeant, isn’t it?"
"No, Sir, with respect, it’s mine," Charley said.
"Galloway," one of the Naval Aviators said, "believe me, I intend to stay as far away from you as I can."
Galloway smiled at him, but didn’t reply.
"I presume your concerns have been put to rest, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Macklin said.
"No, Sir," Charley said. "With respect, they haven’t."
"What exactly are you saying, Sergeant?" Colonel Neville asked.
"Sir . . . Sir, if you put two Texans near my aircraft at the same time, I won’t drop your paratroops."
"Then we won’t burden you with that responsibility, Sergeant. Lieutenant Schneider will pilot the R4D. I can see no necessity for you even to be aboard."
"Sir, Lieutenant Schneider is not qualified to drop parachutists. I won’t authorize him to do so."
"Well, we’ll just see about that, Sergeant," Neville flared. "We’ll see who’s authorized to give-or refuse-orders around here. Will you all wait outside, please? Macklin, get Colonel Hershberger on the telephone. Make it a priority call."
Four minutes later, Lieutenant Macklin appeared in the door to Lieutenant Colonel Neville’s office and beckoned for Galloway to come inside.
"Colonel Hershberger wishes to speak with you, Sergeant," he said.
Galloway picked up the telephone that was lying on its side on Neville’s desk. As he did so, he saw Neville pick up an extension and cover the mouthpiece with his hand.
"Sergeant Galloway, Sir."
"You didn’t waste any time stirring things up, did you, Charley?"
"I’m sorry about this, Sir."
"Tell me about the filthy airplane."
"They drained the oil from the port engine at Willow Grove, Sir. They spilled some. It got on the nacelle and wing and picked up crud when I moved the aircraft."
"Tell me about Willow Grove," Hershberger said. "Was that necessary?"
"I was attempting to avoid a storm I had reason to think might be in the Lakehurst area, Sir," Charley said. He stole a quick look at Neville, and saw that he hadn’t picked up on that.
"OK," Colonel Hershberger said, after a barely perceptible pause which told Charley that Hershberger had correctly interpreted his reply. "So tell me about the Texans."
"I don’t want two of them off my tail when I’m dropping parachutists, Colonel."
"Neville says you refused to fly with any Texans around you."
"No, Sir. I can keep my eye on one of them. Two are too dangerous."
"Anything else you want to say?"
"No, Sir."
"Get Colonel Neville back on the line, please, Charley."
"Sir," Charley heard his mouth run away with him, "the Colonel has been on an extension all the time."
"Hang your phone up, then, Charley," Colonel Hershberger said, pleasantly enough, after a moment. "I want a private word with Colonel Neville."
Charley put the telephone back in its cradle and started to leave the office. But Lieutenant Macklin hissed at him that he had not been dismissed. So Charley assumed the at-ease position facing Lieutenant Colonel Neville’s desk, and was thus witness to the conversation between Hershberger and Neville. Both sides were audible, because Colonel Hershberger seemed to be talking considerably louder to Colonel Neville than he had to Charley.
Both Lieutenant Macklin and Sergeant Galloway pretended, however, not to hear what Colonel Hershberger said. They both knew that it was an embarrassment for a senior officer to be referred to as a "pompous asshole" by an even more senior officer in the hearing of his subordinates. And it got worse: Colonel Hershberger went on to say-actually shout-that Neville was not only unfit to wear a lieutenant colonel’s silver leaf, but the Marine uniform, period. Any officer who calculatedly lied in order to get in trouble a good Marine sergeant who was just obeying his orders was worse than contemptible.
Lieutenant Colonel Neville’s replies to Colonel Hershberger were a number of brief and muted "Yes, Sirs."
When Lieutenant Colonel Neville finally hung up, Charley shifted from "at ease" to "parade rest" (head erect, eyes looking six inches above Colonel Neville, hands folded smartly together in the small of the back), and stayed that way for a very long sixty seconds.
Finally, Lieutenant Colonel Neville said, "That will be all, Sergeant. Thank you."
Charley Galloway popped to attention, did a smart about-face, and marched out of Neville’s office.
(Three)
PFC Stephen M. Koffler, USMC, participated in three parachute jumps on the day everybody involved was to remember for a very long time as "the day it happened."
They were his eighth, ninth, and tenth parachute jumps. His first five jumps had been performed as a student. Four of these had been during daylight, and the fifth at night, all onto what Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville had named Drop Zone Wake, in memory of the heroic Marine defense of Wake Island.
Drop Zone Wake was in fact an area between the runways in the center of the Lakehurst airfield. It was marked out with white tape and little flags on stakes.
According to what he had been told when he began the course, he would be rated as a Marine Parachutist after he had successfully completed his fifth jump, a night drop. That hadn’t happened. Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, who was the Deputy Commandant of the Marine Parachute School, had announced that Colonel Neville had decided to postpone the ceremony during which Parachutists’ wings would be awarded until 14 February. On that day, a team of civilian (from Life magazine) and Marine Corps journalists would be at Lakehurst, Lieutenant Macklin told them; Colonel Neville thought the journalists might want to photograph the ceremony.
Meanwhile, PFC Steve Koffler had changed his mind about wanting to be a Para-Marine. He was now convinced that volunteering for parachute duty was about the dumbest thing he had ever done in his life. Really dumb: there was a very good chance that he was going to get killed long before he got near a Japanese soldier.
He had begun to form that opinion long before he made his first jump. For starters, the physical training the trainees had gone through made the physical training at Parris Island look like a walk through a park.
Beginning right after reveille, the trainees had been led on a run around the airfield fence. Somebody said that the distance was 5.2 miles, and he believed it. And they made you run until you literally dropped. As often as Steve Koffler had run around the fence, he had never made it all the way without collapsing, and usually throwing up, too.
The running, he had been told, was to develop the muscles of the lower body. The muscles of the upper body were developed in several ways, primarily by doing push-ups. Steve Koffler had come out of Parris Island proud that he could do forty pushups. During parachute training, he had once made it to eighty-six before his arms gave out and he collapsed on his face onto the frozen ground.
But there were other upper-body conditioning exercises. Ten trainees at once picked up a log, about ten inches in diameter, and performed various exercises with it. Most of these involved holding the log at arm’s length above the head. And there was a device that consisted of pipes inserted through large pieces of wood, sort of a ladder mounted parallel to the ground. One moved along this like Tarzan, swinging by hand from one end to the other. The difference being that all Tarzan wore was sort of a little skirt over sort of a jockstrap; but the Para-Marine trainees wore all their field gear, including helmets, full canteens, and Springfield rifles.
There had also been a lot of classroom work. Steve and the others had a good deal of trouble staying awake in classes. Not only were they pretty worn out from all the upper- and lower-body-developing exercises, but the lesson material was pretty dull, too.
When you fell asleep, the penalty was for one of the sergeants to kick the folding chair out from under you; then you had to run around the building with your Springfield held at arm’s length over your head and shout at the top of your lungs, "I will not sleep in class." You did that until the sergeant finally decided you had enough-or you crashed to the frozen earth, unconscious or nauseated.
Steve Koffler would thus remember for the rest of his life a large amount of esoteric military data. For example, he now knew that his parachutes were manufactured by the Switlick Company of the finest silk that money could buy; that his main ‘chute was thirty-five feet in diameter and had twenty-eight panels (each of which was made up of a number of smaller pieces, so that if a rip developed, it would spread no farther than the piece where it started); and that his main ‘chute would cause him to fall through the air at a speed of approximately twenty feet per second. This meant he would strike the ground at approximately 13.5 miles per hour.
The main ‘chute was worn on the back. It was opened upon exiting the airplane by a static line connected to the airplane. This pulled the canopy from its container, and then ripped free. The canopy would then fill with air, with the parachutist suspended beneath it.
If something happened, and the main ‘chute did not deploy, there was a second parachute, worn on the chest. This ‘chute, which had twenty-four panels of the best silk money could buy, was approximately twenty-four feet in diameter. It would slow the descent of a falling body to approximately twenty-five feet per second, which worked out to approximately seventeen miles per hour. This emergency chute was deployed by pulling a D-ring on the front of the emergency ‘chute pack.
If both ‘chutes failed, the sergeants told them, there was no problem. Just bring them to the supply sergeant, and he would exchange them for new ‘chutes.
Since the human body was not designed to encounter the earth in a sudden stop at thirteen and a half miles per hour (or seventeen, if the emergency ‘chute was utilized), the Marine Corps, ever mindful of the welfare of its men, had developed special techniques which permitted the human body to survive under such circumstances.
These were demonstrated; and then, until the correct procedures were automatic, the trainees were permitted to practice them: first they jumped from the back of a moving truck, and later from tall towers, from which they were permitted to leap wearing a parachute harness connected to a cable.
A parachutist’s troubles didn’t stop once he touched the ground.
Once he touched down, he might encounter another hazard. The parachute canopy, which had safely floated him onto the earth at 13.5-or seventeen-miles per hour, had an unhappy tendency to fill up again if a sudden gust of wind took hold of it. The ‘chute would then drag the parachutist along the ground, often on his face, until the gust died down-or the parachutist encountered an immovable object, such as a truck, or possibly a tree.
Because of that hazard, the techniques of "spilling the air from the canopy" had been demonstrated to the trainees, who were then permitted to practice them. This was accomplished by placing the trainee on his back behind the engine of a Navy R4D aircraft. He was strapped into a parachute harness with the parachute canopy stretched out on the ground behind him. The engine of the R4D was then revved up so that prop blast could fill the canopy (held up by an obliging sergeant to facilitate filling). The prop blast dragged the canopy and the Para-Marine trainee across the ground, until he managed to spill the air from it by pulling on the "risers" that connected the harness to the canopy.
Inasmuch as every Para-Marine trainee was a volunteer, it was theoretically possible to un-volunteer-to quit. But PFC Steve Koffler believed that option had been taken away from him as a result of the "extended three-day pass" that had already gotten him in so much trouble with Lieutenant Macklin. If he quit, he would be brought before a court-martial and sentenced to the Naval Prison at Portsmouth.
Several times during his training, he’d actually wondered if Portsmouth-as bad as everybody said it was-could really be worse than Jump School. In fact, on several occasions he’d come close to standing up and screaming at one instructor or another, "Fuck it! I quit! Send me to Portsmouth!"
But for several reasons he had not done that: he believed, for instance, all the horrible things he’d heard about Portsmouth. It was logical that Portsmouth had to be worse than Parris Island and the Jump School; otherwise it would be full of refugees from both places.
The most important reason, however, was Mrs. Dianne Marshall Norman. He went to bed every night thinking of Dianne and all they had done to each other in his bed and on the living room couch, and even on the kitchen table. And he woke up thinking of very much the same thing.
He even called her to mind in the R4D just bef
ore he made his first jump. He credited thinking about Dianne not only with keeping him from getting sick to his stomach but from quitting the Para-Marines right there.
He was in love with Dianne. He could not bear the thought of having her learn that he was a craven coward who had not only quit Jump School but had been sentenced to the Naval Prison at Portsmouth. He would rather die-say, from a "cigarette roll." That was what they called it when your ‘chute canopy failed to fill with air, and instead twisted around itself until it looked like a cigarette instead of a big mushroom. When that happened, the parachute hardly slowed you down at all, and you went down like a rock, ultimately hitting the ground at something like 125 miles per hour.
And furthermore, once he had won his wings as a Para-Marine, that AWOL business would be forgotten (if he could believe Lieutenant Macklin), and he would have a clean slate. When that happened, he would be eligible for another pass-and maybe even the leave he never got when he graduated from Parris Island. And he could go and be with her.
The Corps 03 - Counterattack Page 26
