This idea has Leahy's backing, so if you encounter any trouble, feel free to go to Frank Knox.
If you can do it without making any waves, please (a) see if you can find out where my son is being assigned after the war bond tour and (b) tell me if telling his mother would really endanger the entire war effort. She went to see Jack NMI Stecker's boy at the hospital in Pearl and is in pretty bad shape.
Koffler is getting married next week, for a little good news. I decided I had the authority to make him a staff sergeant and have done so.
Regards,
Fleming Pickering, Brigadier General, USMCR
=TOP SECRET=
[FOUR]
Live Oaks Plantation
Baldwin County, Alabama
0700 Hours 2 November 1942
First Lieutenants William C. Dunn and Malcolm S. Pickering were waiting on the porch when the Marine-green Plymouth drove up. They were freshly showered and shaved, their uniforms bore a perfect press, and their shoes were brilliantly shined. The glasses of orange juice in their hands contained no intoxicants.
A 1940 Buick Limited sedan, newly polished, sat in the driveway, with its twin spare tires installed in their own gleaming shrouds in the front fenders.
"He's got somebody with him," Lieutenant Pickering observed.
"I hope he forgets the fucking hats," Lieutenant Dunn replied.
He was to be disappointed. The individual in the passenger seat leapt out the moment the Plymouth stopped moving and opened the rear door for Captain Carstairs. He emerged holding a Cap, Brimmed, Officers, in each hand.
"I would rather face a thousand deaths," Bill Dunn said, getting to his feet and placing his glass on the wide top of the railing.
"You'd rather what?"
"That is what General Lee said when he went to meet Grant at Appomattox Court House. 'I would rather face a thousand deaths, but now I must go...' "
"The way I heard it, what he said was, 'Win a few, lose a few, it all evens up in the end.' "
"Blasphemy, Pickering, blasphemy!" Dunn said, and then called, "Captain Carstairs. Good morning, Sir."
"Good morning, gentlemen," Carstairs said. "How nice to see you looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I have your covers." He looked inside the cap in his right hand. "Who is the five and seven-eighths?"
"That would be the pinhead here, Sir," Pick said, and then smiled at the driver. "Hey, Corporal. How are you?"
"Gentlemen," Carstairs said, "this is Mr. Larsen. Mr. Larsen is about to be graduated as a Naval Aviator and commissioned in The Corps."
Pickering looked at him closely for the first time. He was wearing impeccably pressed enlisted men's greens. You could literally see a reflection in his shoes. And though there was no evidence whatever that Mr. Larsen had a beard, Pick knew this was because Mr. Larsen had shaved with great care earlier this morning-maybe two or three times. And he was built like a tank... reminding Pick of Technical Sergeant-now Master Gunner, he remembered-Big Steve Oblensky.
"How do you do, Mr. Larsen?" Lieutenant Dunn said, and offered his hand.
I forgot about that polish and shaving crap. Billy went through P'Cola as a cadet; he knows about that chickenshit bullshit because he had to put up with it himself. Dick Stecker and I had our commissions when we showed up. And that, I recall, really pissed off Captain Mustache.
And now that I think about it, was that because Dick and I were living in the San Carlos Hotel and didn't have to put up with his chickenshit? Or maybe because we were living in the San Carlos and so I got to meet Martha? And because I didn't have to spend my evenings shining my shoes and the toilet seats in the barracks, I could chase after her?
"Sir, I am fine, Sir," Mr. Larsen said. "Sir, I consider this a great honor to meet you, Sir."
"Marine officers," Pick heard himself saying, "do not gush like women. Try to control yourself, Mr. Larsen."
"Sir, yes, Sir. Sir, no excuse, Sir," Mr. Larsen said.
Captain Carstairs and Lieutenant Dunn gave Lieutenant Pickering dirty looks.
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 shoulder 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' 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.
THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT Page 38
