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 'II 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 Lieutenant 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?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
[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-221 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.
But then he realized that VMF-221 was no longer operating out of Henderson Field, and that he was at NAS Pensacola, where there were more than adequate supplies of flight suits and everything else. And after that, he recalled that VMF-221 was no longer his squadron... and that for all practical purposes it no longer existed.
Colonel Porter already had the script for the aerial melodrama firmly set in his mind: First he and O'Fallon would fly off somewhere out of sight. And then they'd attack Corey Field (representing Henderson Field) in a strafing maneuver. Dunn and Pickering, on patrol, would defend Corey/Henderson.
Since it would be impossible to actually shoot down Colonel Porter and Captain O'Fallon, they would next climb to 5,000 feet and get in a dogfight. (Pickering realized that he and Dunn would be allowed to win. How would it look to the student pilots if two heroic aces lost?)
In order to make this bit of theater possible, the Wildcats had been equipped with "gun cameras." These were 16mm motion picture cameras mounted in the wings. When the gun trigger was pulled, the camera operated. Colonel Porter's intention was to have the gun camera film developed immediately so that it could be shown to everybody after lunch.
Between the time they finished playing war and started lunch, Lieutenants Pickering and Dunn would be debriefed on the platform by an intelligence officer. Captain Mustache Carstairs would play that role.
While they changed into the flight suits, the students were permitted to leave the bleachers and examine the Wildcats.
But when it came time for him to examine it up close, Pickering was nearly as impressed with his Wildcat as any of them. As he went through the preflight and then climbed into the cockpit, he could find nothing at all wrong with it. The aircraft was perfect in every respect: There wasn't a trace of dirt anywhere. The Plexiglas of the canopy and windscreen was clear and without cracks. Even the leather on the seat and headrest looked new. And, of course, everything worked the way it was designed to work; and there were no patched bullet holes on the skin of the wings or fuselage.
After a time, the student pilots were ordered away from the aircraft. Then sailors in pressed and starched blue work uniforms appeared with fire extinguishers. Porter and Captain O'Fallon started their engines, warmed them up, and moved to the threshold of the active runway. One after the other they took off and disappeared from sight in the direction of Alabama.
Ten minutes later, Bill Dunn looked over at Pickering and gave the wind-'em-up signal. Pickering followed him to the threshold of the active runway and stopped, to permit Dunn to take off first.
"Do you ever remember taking off one at a time?" Dunn's voice came metallically over t
he radio. "Come on."
Pick released the brakes and moved onto the runway beside him. Dunn looked over at him, smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Corey, Cactus rolling," Dunn told the tower, and shoved the throttle to TAKEOFF POWER. Pickering followed suit. They started down the runway together.
Something is wrong! Something's missing! Pick thought, and for a moment he felt fear.
Shit, goddamn it, you goddamn fool! This is a paved runway. Paved runways don't cause the goddamned gear to complain the way pierced steel planking and large rocks do.
Life came into the controls. Twenty feet apart, the two Wildcats lifted off the ground.
"Colonel," Dunn's voice came over the radio ten minutes later. "Sir, I'm sorry, I forgot your call sign."
"Cactus Leader," Colonel Porter replied, "this is Red Leader. Over."
"Red Leader," Dunn replied, "this is Cactus Leader. Colonel, I'm out of bullets. Or at least a red light comes on when I pull the trigger."
Pickering laughed and touched his mike button.
"Cactus Leader, this is Cactus Two. I'm out of bullets, too."
"Cactus Leader, Red Leader," Colonel Porter replied. "Break this off, and return to field."
"Roger, Red Leader."
"Cactus Leader, we will go first. Cactus Leader, there will be no, repeat no, unauthorized aerobatic maneuvers at any altitude in the vicinity of Corey Field. Acknowledge."
What the hell does that mean? Oh, Christ, he thinks we were planning on doing a victory barrel roll over the field. Why not? We really whipped their ass. I expected to win, but not that easily.
"Red Leader, say again?"
"Cactus Leader, you will land at Corey and you will not, repeat not, perform any aerobatic maneuvers of any kind. Acknowledge."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Dunn said. "Cactus Leader, out."
Dunn suddenly made a sharp, steep, diving turn to his right. This confused Pickering for a moment. He'd been flying on Dunn's wing since they formed up again after what must have been the third or fourth time they shot Porter and O'Fallon down; and, confused or not, he followed him instinctively. Dunn straightened out heading west. Pickering could see Mobile Bay near the horizon.
Now what, Billy Boy? Are you going to do a barrel roll over Ye Olde Family Manse?
Lieutenant Dunn did precisely that, with Lieutenant Pickering repeating the maneuver on his tail.
Then Dunn did more than confuse Pickering; he astonished him. After putting his Wildcat into a steep turn (permitting him to lower his gear utilizing centrifugal force, rather than having to crank it down), he lined himself up with an auxiliary field and landed.
What the hell is that all about? Did he get a warning light?
"Billy?"
There was no reply.
Pickering overflew the auxiliary field.
It's not in use. Otherwise, there'd be an ambulance and some other ground crew, in case a student pranged his Yellow Peril.
Billy, you just about managed to run out of runway! What the hell is going on?
Pickering picked up a little altitude and flew around the field. Then he put his Wildcat in a steep turn in order to release his gear in the usual (but specifically proscribed) manner. And then he made an approach and landing that he considered to be much safer than the one executed by Lieutenant Dunn.
Christ, you're not supposed to put a Wildcat down on one of these auxiliary fields at all!
He stood on the brakes and pulled up beside Dunn's Wildcat. The engine was still running. Dunn was a hundred yards away, walking toward an enormous live oak tree.
Pickering unstrapped himself, climbed out of the cockpit, and trotted after Dunn. He had to wait to speak to him, however; for as he caught up with him, Dunn was having a hell of a time trying to close the zipper of his new flight suit after having urinated on the live oak.
"You want to tell me what you're doing?"
"Officially, I had a hydraulic system failure warning light and made a precautionary landing. When you were unable to contact me by radio, you very courageously landed your aircraft to see what assistance you might be able to render. All in keeping with the honorable traditions of The Marine Corps. Semper Fi. "
"What the hell is this?"
"Actually, I am planning for the future," Bill Dunn said, very seriously. "Fifty years from now... what'll that be, 1992?... Colonel William C. Dunn-anybody who has ever worn a uniform in the Deep South gets to call himself 'Colonel,' you know..."
"Billy..."
"Colonel Dunn, a fine old silver-haired gentleman, is going to stand where you and I are standing. He will have a grandfatherly hand on the shoulder of his grandson, William C. Dunn... let me see, that'll be William C. Dunn the Sixth... and he will say, 'Grandson, during the Great War, your granddaddy was a fighter pilot, and he was over at Pensacola and out flying a Grumman Wildcat, which at the time was one hell of a fighter, and nature called. So he landed his airplane right here where this pecan orchard is now. That used to be a landing strip, boy. And he took out his talleywacker and pissed right up against this fine old live oak tree.' "
"Jesus Christ, Billy!"
" 'And the moral of that story, Grandson, is that when you are up to your ears in bullshit, the only thing you can do is piss on it.' "
"You're insane." Pick laughed.
"You landed here when you knew goddamned well the strip wasn't long enough for a Wildcat. You're insane, too."
A sudden image came to Pick of Bill Dunn as a silver-haired seventy-odd-year-old with his hand on the shoulder of a blond-haired boy.
And his mouth ran away with him.
"You're presuming you're going to live through this war," he said.
Dunn met his eyes.
"I considered that possibility, Pick," he said. "Or improbability. But then I decided, if I do somehow manage to come through alive, and I didn't land here and piss on the oak, I'd regret it for the rest of my life. So I put the wheels down. I certainly didn't think you'd be dumb enough to follow me. This was supposed to be a private moment."
"Sorry to intrude."
"And then I realized, when I heard you coming, that I should have known better. If you are so inclined, Pick, you may piss on my live oak."
"I consider that a great honor, Billy."
As Pick was standing by the tree, Dunn said, "Under the circumstances, I don't think we should even make a low-level pass over Corey Field, much less a barrel roll. Colonel Whatsisname would shit a brick, and I really don't want to wind up in the backseat of a Yellow Peril."
"Yeah," Pick said. "I guess he would."
"And the sonofabitch is probably right. It would set a bad example for those kids."
[TWO]
Main Dining Room
The Officers' Club
Main Side, U.S. Naval Air Station
Pensacola, Florida
1625 Hours 2 November 1942
The gun camera footage proved interesting; but Pick had private doubts about how accurately it represented the flow of bullets.
The cameras were apparently bore-sighted: They showed the view as you'd see it if you were looking down the machine gun's barrel. But that made shooting and killing instantaneous. And.50 caliber bullets didn't really fly that way. In combat, you didn't aim where the enemy aircraft was, you aimed where it was going to be. Like shooting skeet, you lead
the target.
Somewhat immodestly, he wondered if the reason he never had any trouble with aerial gunnery, in training or in combat, was that he'd shot a hell of a lot of skeet. That was probably true, he concluded. And true of Billy, too. There was a wall full of shotguns in his house.
Knocking little clay disks out of the air with a shotgun probably had a lot to do with me being here and in one piece, instead of dead. Or wrapped in two miles of white gauze, tied up like a goddamned mummy, like Dick.
The lights came on.
Colonel Porter stepped to the lectern and tapped the microphone with his fingernail.
"Gentleme
n," he said, "I have to confess-and I am sure that Captain O'Fallon shares my feeling-that it is somewhat embarrassing to have to stand here after everybody has seen proof of how Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering cleaned our clocks."
There came the expected laughter.
"One final observation, gentlemen, and then we can begin our cocktail hour. I'm sure you all noticed how brief those film segments were.
None of them lasted more than a couple of seconds. I hope you understand how that works. The cameras were activated only when the gun trigger was depressed. And Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering only fired when they were sure of their target, when they knew they were within range and were going to hit what they aimed at."
THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT Page 39
