W E B Griffin - Corp 04 - Battleground

by Battleground(Lit)

  "The last time I saw Charley, I thought they were going to crucify him," Lorenz said. "And I mean, literally. What the hell does that 'concurrence of the Commandant' mean?"

  "I think it means that Doc Mclnerney went right to the Commandant. They had Charley flying a VIP R4D around out of Quantico." The R4D was the Navy designation of the twin-engine Douglas transport aircraft called DC-3 by the manufacturer and C-47 by the Army Air Corps. "What I think is that Mclnerney went to the Commandant and told him how desperate we are for people with more than two hundred hours in a cockpit. As furious as the Navy was with him, nobody but the Commandant would dare to commission him."

  "The last I heard, they wouldn't let him fly-hell, even taxi-anything. He was still a sergeant, and they had him working as a mechanic on the flight line at Quantico. But this sort of restores my faith in the Marine Corps," Lorenz said.

  " 'Restores' your faith, Major?" Dawkins asked wryly. "That suggests it was lost."

  "Well, let's say, the way the brass let the Navy crap all over Charley, that it wavered a little."

  "Oh ye of little faith!" Dawkins mocked, gently.

  "When's he due in?"

  Dawkins shrugged helplessly. "The TWX didn't say," he said. "And knowing Charley as well as I do, that means one of two things: He will either rush over here as fast as humanly possible, or else he will still be trying to find a slow ship the day the war's over."

  Lorenz laughed.

  Dawkins stood up.

  "Let's go pin the Purple Heart on Lieutenant Dunn," he said.

  (Two)

  U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

  PEARL HARBOR, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1505 HOURS 19 JUNE 1942

  When Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins pushed open the door to his room, First Lieutenant William C. Dunn was lying on his back on the bed; his bathrobe was open and his legs were spread; and he was not wearing pajama pants. Dunn was obviously not expecting visitors.

  What Dawkins could see, among other things, were several bandages in the vicinity of Dunn's crotch. One of these was large, but most were not much more than Band-Aids. He could also see a half-dozen unbandaged wounds, their sutures visible, on his inner upper thighs. The whole area had been shaved and then painted with some kind of orange antiseptic.

  He was almost a soprano, Dawkins thought. Whatever had come through the canopy of Dunn's Wildcat had come within inches of blowing away the family jewels. From the number of fragments, it was probably a 20mm, which exploded on contact.

  Soon after the door opened, Dunn covered his midsection with the flap of his hospital issue bathrobe; and then when he saw the silver leaf on Dawkins's collar, he started to swing his legs to get out of bed.

  "Stay where you are, Son," Dawkins said quickly, but too late. Dunn was already on his feet, standing at attention.

  "Well, then, stand at ease," Dawkins said. "Does all that hurt very much?"

  "Only when I get a hard-on, Sir," Dunn blurted, and quickly added, "Sorry, Sir. I shouldn't have said that."

  "If I had been dinged in that area, and it still worked," Dawkins said, "I think I would be delighted."

  "Yes, Sir," Dunn said.

  "Do you know who I am, Son?"

  "Yes, Sir. You gave us a little talk when we reported aboard."

  "And this is my exec, Major Lorenz," Dawkins said.

  Lorenz gave his hand to Dunn.

  "How are you, Lieutenant?"

  "Very well, thank you, Sir."

  "Why don't you let me pin this thing on you," Dawkins said. "And then you get back in bed."

  He took the Purple Heart Medal from a hinged metal box, pinned it to the lapel of Dunn's bathrobe, and then shook his hand.

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "That's the oldest medal, did you know that?" Dawkins said. "Goes back to the Revolution. Washington issued an order that anyone who had been wounded could wear a purple ribbon-and in those days that meant a real ribbon-on his uniform."

  "I didn't know that, Sir," Dunn admitted.

  "You have literally shed blood for your country," Dawkins said. "You can wear that with pride."

  Dunn didn't reply.

  "Why don't you get back in bed?"

  "I'm all right, Sir. And they have been encouraging me to move around."

  "They tell me you're being discharged tomorrow," Dawkins said.

  "I was about to tell you that, Sir, and ask you what's next."

  "You've been assigned to VMF-229," Dawkins said.

  "Pending court-martial, Sir?"

  "No charges have been, or will be, pressed against you, Dunn," Dawkins said.

  "But they don't want me back in the squadron, right, Sir?"

  "I ordered your transfer to VMF-229," Dawkins said. "The commanding officer of VMF-211 had nothing to do with that decision."

  "Yes, Sir," Dunn said, on the edge of insolence, making it clear he did not believe that answer.

  Dawkins felt anger swell up in him, but suppressed it.

  "VMF-229 is a new squadron. It was activated today. Right now, you are half of its total strength. The commanding officer is en route from the States. I assigned you there because I wanted someone with your experience..."

  "My Midway experience, Sir?" Dunn asked, just over the edge into sarcasm.

  "When I want a question, Son," Dawkins said icily, "I will ask for one."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You will be the only pilot in the squadron who has even seen a Japanese airplane, much less shot two of them down," Dawkins said. "I want the newcomers to look at you and see you're very much like they are. To take some of the pressure off, if you follow my meaning. Additionally, perhaps you will be able to teach them something, based on your experience."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I'm personally acquainted with your new commanding officer, Captain Charley Galloway," Dawkins went on. "I will tell him what I know about you, and the gossip. And I will tell him that I personally feel you did everything you were supposed to do at Midway, and then, suffering wounds, managed to get your shot-up aircraft back to the field."

  Dunn for the first time met Dawkins's eyes.

  "Now, you may ask any questions you may have," Dawkins said.

  "Thank you, Sir," Dunn said after a moment. "No questions, Sir."

  "Unsolicited advice is seldom welcome, Dunn, but nevertheless: Do what you can to ignore the gossip. Eventually, it will die down. You now have that clean slate everyone's always talking about, new squadron, new skipper. If I were Captain Galloway, I'd be damned glad to be getting someone like you."

  "Colonel, I really don't remember a goddamned thing about how I got back to the field," Dunn said.

  I believe him.

  "The important thing is that you got back," Dawkins said.

  "Sir, where is VMF-229?"

  "Right now, it's on a sheet of paper in Major Lorenz's OUT basket," Dawkins said. "When you get out of here, check into the BOQ. When Captain Galloway gets here, or something else happens, we'll send for you. Take some time off. I was about to say, go swimming, but that's probably not such a hot idea, is it?"

  "No, Sir," Dunn said.

  For the first time, Dawkins noticed, Dunn is smiling. I think it just sank in that he's not going to be court-martialed, and maybe even that someone doesn't think he's a coward.

  "Check in with the adjutant, or the sergeant major, once a day," Dawkins said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  Dawkins put out his hand.

  "Congratulations, Lieutenant, on your decoration," he said. "And good luck in your new assignment."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  Major Lorenz offered his hand.

  "If you need anything, Dunn, come see me, or give me a call. And congratulations, too, and good luck."

  "Thank you, Sir," Dunn repeated.

  (Three)

  U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1535 HOURS 19 JUNE 1942

  Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins and
Major Lorenz left the room, closing the door after them. Dunn lowered his head to look at his Purple Heart Medal-he had seen the ribbon before, but not the actual medal-then unpinned it and held it in his hand and looked at it again. It was in the shape of a heart and bore a profile of George Washington.

  He picked up the box it had come in and saw that it contained both the ribbon and a metal pin in the shape of the ribbon, obviously intended to be worn in the lapel of a civilian jacket.

  "You're a real fucking hero, Bill Dunn," he said wryly, aloud. "You have been awarded the 'Next Time, Stupid, Remember to Duck Medal.'"

  He chuckled at his own wit. Then he put the medal in the box, snapped the lid closed, walked to the white bedside table, and put it in the drawer. As he was closing the drawer, the door opened again.

  Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Mary Agnes O'Malley, Nurse Corps, USN, entered the room, carrying a stainless steel tray covered with a wash-faded, medical green cloth.

  "Hi," she said and smiled at him.

  Lieutenant Dunn was strongly attracted to Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley, partly because she was a trim, pert-breasted redhead, and partly because he had heard that she fucked like a mink. He'd heard it so often at the bar in the Ewa Officer's Club that it had to be something more than wishful thinking.

  "Hi," he replied.

  He thought she looked especially desirable today. When she put the cloth covered tray down on his bedside table, she leaned far enough over to afford him a glimpse of her well-filled brassiere, and the soft white flesh straining at it.

  Despite her reputation, Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley had so far shown zero interest in Dunn. In his view there were two reasons for this. First, since someone as good looking as Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley could pick and choose among a large group of bachelor officers, she would naturally prefer a captain or a major to a lowly lieutenant. Second, but perhaps most important, he knew that his reputation had preceded him: She had certainly heard the gossip that he had run away from the fight at Midway. To a young woman like Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley-for that matter, to any young woman-a lowly lieutenant with a yellow streak was something to be scorned, not taken to bed.

  "What did the brass want?" she asked.

  "The war is going badly," he said. "They came for my advice on how to turn it around."

  "I'm serious," she said, gesturing for him to get on the bed. "What did they want?"

  "They gave me my 'You Forgot to Duck Medal.' "

  "What?"

  "Colonel Dawkins gave me the Purple Heart," Dunn said. "And my new assignment. Why should I get in bed?"

  "Because I'm going to remove your sutures," she said. "Or some of them, anyway. Where's your medal?"

  "In the table drawer."

  "Can I see it?"

  "You've never seen one before?"

  "I want to see yours."

  You show me yours and I'll show you mine.

  He went to the bedside table and took the box out and handed it to her.

  She opened it and looked at it and handed it back.

  "Very nice. You should be proud of yourself."

  "All that means is that I got hit," he said.

  "You realize how lucky you were that it wasn't worse, I hope?"

  Does she mean that the 20mm didn't hit me in the head? Or that it didn't get me in the balls?

  "Yeah, sure I do," he said.

  "Get in the bed and open your robe," she said.

  "I'm not wearing my pajama bottoms."

  She tossed him the faded green medical cloth.

  "Cover yourself," she said. "Not that I would see something I haven't seen before."

  He got on the bed, arranged the cloth over his crotch, and opened the robe.

  She pulled on rubber gloves, an act that he found quite erotic, dipped a gauze patch in alcohol, and then proceeded to mop his inner thighs.

  He yelped when, without warning, she pulled the larger bandage free with a jerk.

  "Still a little suppuration," she observed, professionally. "But it's healing nicely. You were really lucky."

  Without question, that remark makes reference to the fact that I didn't get zapped in the balls.

  As she scrubbed at the vestiges of the tape that had held the bandage in place, he got another glimpse down the front of her crisp white uniform at the swelling of her bosom. He could smell the perfume she'd put down there, too. With dreadful inevitability he almost instantly achieved a state of erection.

  Lieutenant O'Malley seemed not to notice.

  "Where are they sending you?" she asked, as she jerked the smaller bandage free.

  "VMF-229," he said.

  "Where's that? Or is that classified?"

  "Colonel Dawkins said that right now it's in the exec's desk drawer," Dunn said. "It was activated today. Right now it's me and a captain named Galloway, who's en route from the States."

  "Galloway?" she asked. "Does he have a first name?"

  Dunn thought a moment. "Charley, I think he said. Mean anything to you?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I used to date a Tech Sergeant Charley Galloway. He was a pilot. I wonder how many Charley Galloways there are in the Marine Corps?"

  Socialization between commissioned officers and enlisted personnel was not only a social no-no in the Naval Service but against regulations, and thus a court-martial offense. The announcement startled him.

  "You used to date a sergeant?" he blurted.

  "My, aren't you the prig? Haven't you ever done anything you shouldn't?" she asked as she dabbed at the gummy residue of the second bandage. "I think we'll just leave the bandage off of that."

  "I didn't mean to sound like a prig," he said. "I guess I was just a little surprised to... hear you volunteer that."

  "Well, I didn't think you would tell anybody," she said. "You mean you never heard of Sergeant Charley Galloway?"

  And then, all of a sudden, he realized that he had. He hadn't made the connection before because of the rank.

  "I reported aboard VMF-211 after he left," Dunn said. "That Galloway?"

  She chuckled.

  "That Galloway," she confirmed.

  "The scuttlebutt I heard was that he and another sergeant put together a Wildcat from wrecks of what was left on December seventh, wrecks that had been written off the books, and that he flew it off without authority to join the Wake Island relief force at sea."

  "The Saratoga," she said. "Task Force XIV," she said. "They started out to reinforce Wake Island, but they were called back."

  "I heard that he was really in trouble for doing that," Dunn said. "That they sent him back to the States for a court-martial. What was that all about?"

  "He embarrassed the Navy brass," she explained. "First of all BUAIR." (The U.S. Navy Bureau of Aeronautics, which is charged with aviation engineering for the Marine Corps.) "They examined the airplanes after the Japanese attack and said they were total losses. But Charley and Sergeant Oblensky..." "Who?"

  "Big Steve Oblensky. He was VMF-211's Maintenance Sergeant."

  "I know him," Dunn said. "As far as I know, he still is."

  "So after the brass said all of VMF-21 l's planes at Ewa were beyond repair, Big Steve and Charley got one flying; and then Charley flew it out to Sara, which was then a couple of hundred miles at sea. The whole relief force was supposed to be a secret, especially of course, where Sara was. So the brass's faces were red, and since the brass never make a mistake, they decided to stick the old purple shaft in Charley."

  "Why did he do it?"

  "Hell," Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley said, "the rest of VMF-211 was on Wake and had already lost most of their planes. Charley figured they needed whatever airplanes they could get. The only aircraft on Sara were Buffaloes. They could have used Charley's Wildcat, if the brass here hadn't called the relief force back."

  Dunn grunted.

  It had occurred to him that despite the smell of her perfume, her well-filled brassiere, and the other delightful aspects of her gentle gender, Lieutenant (j.g.) O'
Malley was talking to him like-more importantly, thinking like-a fellow officer of the Naval Establishment, even down to an easy familiarity with the vernacular. It was somewhat disconcerting.

  "We don't know if we're talking about the same man," he said.