The Corps IV - Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  There was no suggestion on his face that he had ever seen Captain Charles Galloway before in his life. He raised his hand in a crisp salute.

  "Good afternoon, Sir. The captain wished to see me?"

  Charley returned the salute.

  "Good afternoon, Sergeant," he said. "Yes, I did."

  "How may I help the captain, Sir?"

  "I think we might as well start by putting this back in my name," Galloway said, waving at the Ford. "Does it run as good as it looks?"

  "I don't think the captain will have any complaints, Sir."

  "Well, then get in, Sergeant, and we'll go see the Provost Marshal."

  "Sir, with the captain's permission, I'll have to inform the maintenance officer that I will be out of the hangar."

  "That won't be necessary, Sergeant. I've explained to your squadron commander that we have some business to take care of."

  "Yes, Sir."

  That's bullshit.

  What I did, with absolutely no success, was try to placate his squadron commander after he had been told five minutes before that he had just lost his Maintenance NCO to VMF-229, and that the decision was not open for discussion or reversal When I walked out of his door, the man was still steamingly pissed off-not only at his Wing Commander but, if possible, even more at Captain Charles M. Galloway, CO, VMF-229. I wonder why I didn't tell Big Steve that he now works for me?

  Obviously, because I don't want him to think that Santa Claus has come to town, and that he now has a squadron commander in his pocket

  Galloway got behind the wheel of the Ford. Oblensky, after first removing it from a well-filled key ring, handed the ignition key to him.

  The engine started immediately. Galloway slipped it in gear and made a U-turn away from the hangar.

  "I heard you were back," Oblensky said.

  It starts. "You," not "the captain" No "Sir."

  "I got in yesterday," Galloway said. "I got a ride on an Army Air Corps B-17."

  "Do they give them guns and ammo now?" Oblensky asked.

  Again, no "Sir," Galloway thought. What the hell is he talking about?

  And then he remembered. During the attack on Pearl Harbor, a flight of B-17s had arrived in Hawaii. Since they had left the United States in peacetime-and to decrease the parasitic drag the weapons would cause if in place-their.50 caliber Browning machine guns had been stowed inside, and they had carried no ammunition for them. They had arrived in the middle of a battle absolutely unable to defend themselves.

  "These had ammo," Galloway answered, remembering. "The side positions were faired over, and their guns were on the deck. The turrets were operational."

  "I heard they were giving you a squadron."

  Of course you did. If you could find out from the Navy the course of the Saratoga at sea, it was no problem at all for you to find out from the sergeant in Colonel Dawkins's office that I was going to get VMF-229.

  "VMF-229," Galloway said.

  It was not far from the hangar to the Provost Marshal's office. Oblensky did not attempt further conversation.

  There was a lanky buck sergeant on duty. He stood up behind his desk when Galloway walked into the small frame building.

  "Good morning, Sir," the sergeant said. "Can I help you?"

  "I want to register a car," Galloway said. "You got the papers, Sergeant Oblensky?"

  "Yes, Sir," Oblensky said, taking the vehicle registrations, military and civilian, from his wallet and handing them over.

  "Sir," the Provost Marshal Sergeant said, "if the captain is buying the car from the sergeant, you'll need a notarized bill of sale."

  "I'm not buying it," Galloway said. "I already own it. I gave Sergeant Oblensky a power-of-attorney to use it when I went to the States."

  "It's on file," Oblensky said. "Look under 'Oblensky.' "

  "Let me check," the sergeant said, and he went to a vertical file cabinet. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. He returned with a manila folder, reading from it as he walked.

  "You're Tech Sergeant Galloway, Sir?"

  "No. I'm Captain Galloway. But I was a Tech Sergeant when I signed that power-of-attorney."

  "Yes, Sir. That's what I meant, Sir. I'll get the forms, Sir."

  He went into a small storeroom.

  "I think he knows who you are," Oblensky said, softly.

  "Who am I?"

  "I mean, I think he knows what happened, who you are," Oblensky said.

  The sergeant came out of the storeroom with several printed forms and a small metal plate. He sat down at the typewriter and fed the forms into it. He asked for Galloway's serial number and unit.

  "There's a new regulation, Sir," the sergeant said. "You'll need your CO's permission to have a car on the base."

  "Colonel Dawkins, you mean?"

  "No, Sir, your squadron commander will do."

  "I command VMF-229," Galloway said.

  "Yes, Sir," the sergeant said, visibly surprised.

  Big Steve was right. That guy did make the connection. It will be interesting conversation at the Staff NCO Club tonight-for that matter at the Officer's Club, too-and all over the base by tomorrow:

  "Remember that story about the Flying Sergeant of VMF-211 who fixed up the F4F the Japs got on December 7? Fixed it up and flew it out to the Saratoga at sea and really pissed the Navy off? The guy they sent back to the states for court-martial? Well, he's back, and guess what, he's a captain, no shit, and a squadron commander!"

  The sergeant came from his typewriter and handed Galloway forms to sign and then the small metal plate.

  "You screw this on top of the Hawaiian plate, Sir," he said. "That'll be fifty cents, please."

  Galloway handed him two quarters.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Excuse me, Sir," the sergeant said. "You used to be a flying sergeant with VMF-211, right?"

  "Right."

  "I thought I remembered the name," the sergeant said.

  Would you like my autograph? How to Succeed in the Corps: Really fuck up!

  He became aware that Oblensky was tugging at the small metal plate, and released it to him. When they went outside, Oblensky opened the rumble seat, took a screwdriver from a small tool roll, and replaced the tag (for enlisted men) above the license plate with the new officer's tag Galloway had just been given.

  "Thank you, Steve," Galloway said. "And also for keeping the car so shipshape."

  "Don't be silly," Oblensky said. "I was using it, wasn't I? I owe you."

  I'm not very good at this psychological bullshit, "How the wise commissioned officer should deal with the enlisted swine." Fuck it!

  "Steve, I had you transferred to VMF-229," Galloway said. "Is that going to cause any problems?"

  "You're starting with problems," Oblensky said. "What you have is fourteen pickled F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl, Christ only knows what shape they're in; a dozen-maybe fifteen, sixteen-kids who are not sure what a wrench is used for;, and a young pilot scuttlebutt says runs from fights."

  "I mean with you and me," Galloway said.

  Oblensky's eyes narrowed. Galloway knew him well enough to know that meant he was angry. Very angry.

  "I don't think I deserved that, Captain Galloway," he said, coldly, after a moment. "I would have thought you know me well enough to know that I have been in the Corps long enough to know where the line is between those of us who wear stripes and those of you who wear bars."

  "Christ, Steve!"

  "If the captain can remember not to call the sergeant by his Christian name where other people can hear him, the sergeant will remember not to remember that he knew the captain when he was a wiseass little fucker who made tech sergeant before he was old enough to be a pimple on a buck sergeant's ass."

  "I'll keep that in mind, Sergeant Oblensky."

  "The captain would be wise to do just that," Oblensky said.

  They met each other's eyes for a moment, and then, Oblensky first, they smiled at each other.

  "Thank
you, Steve," Galloway said.

  "When does my transfer come through?"

  "I don't know about the paperwork, but you're in VMF-229 as of now."

  "In that case, why don't we ride over and see what shape our airplanes are in? Unless there's something I don't know about, that would seem to be our first order of business."

  They got in the Ford. En route to the wharfs at the Pearl Harbor Naval Station, Oblensky asked, "Remember when we painted this thing? And that Lieutenant Commander wanted to know where we got the paint, and you showed him the can from Sears, Roebuck?"

  Galloway chuckled. The paint can from Sears had been labeled, HIGH GLOSS YELLOW ENAMEL. $5.95. After they'd bought it, Oblensky had dumped the contents into a five gallon can of Navy yellow paint intended to paint lines on hangar and flight line floors. He had then refilled it- "borrowed" it from Navy stocks-with a very high quality aviation paint that was reported to be worth sixty dollars a gallon on the civilian market.

  The Ford's new paint job had been spectacular, as the Lieutenant Commander had noticed. He had run right down to Sears to get a gallon of their $5.95 "High Gloss Yellow Enamel" to paint his own car. His Studebaker, somehow, hadn't come out looking nearly as nice as Galloway's Ford, and he had been disappointed and mystified.

  His own reaction at the time, Charley remembered, was that was the sort of stupid behavior you expected from a fucking officer. He was aware now that he had switched sides, that he was now a fucking officer, and considered fair game by old time non-coms like Big Steve.

  "I got some more bad news for you," Oblensky said. "Your Lieutenant Dunn's been fucking your girlfriend."

  "You mean Ensign O'Malley?"

  "Yeah. You mean you forgot her?"

  "She was never my girlfriend, Steve."

  "Well," Oblensky chuckled. "You were pretty fucking chummy, as I remember."

  In the early morning of December 7, 1941, Technical Sergeant Galloway had been in bed with Ensign O'Malley in a cabin in the hills Technical Sergeant Oblensky had borrowed for the weekend from an old and now retired Marine Corps buddy. When Oblensky had burst into the room to tell Galloway that the Japanese were attacking the Naval base at Pearl Harbor, Ensign O'Malley had been performing on Technical Sergeant Galloway's body a sexual act that he had not even heard of previously, not even in the French movies he had sometimes seen on stag night in the Staff NCO Club.

  "What about Flo?" Galloway asked, to change the subject. "You still see her?"

  Flo was Lieutenant Florence Kocharski, Navy Nurse Corps, a lady a few years younger and not much smaller than Oblensky. They had met when Oblensky had gone to the Naval Hospital for his annual physical. It had taken them about twenty minutes to decide that it was time to break a rule both had followed for more than twenty years: Officers do not become involved with enlisted personnel.

  "I knew you'd get around to asking that, sooner or later," Oblensky replied.

  It was not the reply Galloway expected.

  "Is there some reason I shouldn't have asked? You were pretty fucking chummy, too, as I remember."

  "Off the record, Captain?"

  "Off the record."

  "We got married," Oblensky said. "The day after you flew out to the Saratoga."

  "Married?" Galloway asked, in disbelief.

  "We were going to get married when one of us retired anyway," Oblensky said. "We both got our twenty-years in, and then some. So when this goddamned war came along, and they weren't going to let us retire, we figured, fuck 'em. We got married. Flo knew a priest who can keep his mouth shut, and we didn't put ranks or whatever on the marriage license."

  "You mean you got married without permission?"

  "They don't let officers marry enlisted men, or vice versa, you know that."

  "Well, you know I like Flo," Galloway said, honestly. "So the first thing I've got to say is 'congratulations.'"

  "Why don't you just stop there, then?"

  "Christ, what are you going to do if they find out?"

  "Hope they don't, for openers," Oblensky said. "I don't think they'd court-martial us."

  "Goddamn, Steve, I don't know."

  "After Flo and Hot Pants O'Malley dropped us back at the base on seven December," Oblensky said carefully, "Flo went down to Battleship Row. She was on board West Virginia taking care of some sailors when there was a secondary explosion... one of the five-inch magazines blew up. She caught some fragments and got burned a little, but she was still able to work, so she stuck around for a while. Some Commander saw her and put her in for a medal and the Purple Heart. We figured the Navy and/or the Corps would look pretty fucking silly court-martialing a wounded hero for marrying a Marine. Or vice versa, a Marine for marrying a wounded hero."

  "They're going to be pissed," Galloway said.

  "Well, they were pissed at you, too, and now look at you," Oblensky said.

  "I didn't think to ask," Galloway said. "Were you in trouble because of what I did?"

  "They were pretty excited for a while right afterward," Oblensky said. "But you were the one who flew the airplane, not me. I don't expect to get promoted any time soon, though."

  "What are you going to do about the paperwork?" Galloway asked. "Who's the dependent, for example? You, or Flo?"

  "We've been a little wary about getting into that," Oblensky said. "The only thing we did was change our life insurance. She gets mine, and I get hers, if anything happens. I changed my home of record to her brother's, in Chicago. And we didn't say we was married. You can leave your insurance to a friend."

  "Let me look into this, Steve."

  "Don't rock the fucking boat, Charley," Oblensky said.

  "I won't, trust me."

  "I guess I have to, don't I?" Oblensky said. "You don't seem very pissed off that Hot Pants is fucking Lieutenant Dunn."

  Just in time, Galloway stopped himself from saying, "I met somebody special in the States."

  I can't tell him about Caroline. If I told him that I actually met a woman from a background like that, that she drove across the country with me, that we stayed at the Andrew Foster Hotel as the guests of Andrew Foster, he would think it was one hundred-percent bullshit, probably concocted because he had just told me Hot Pants O'Malley is now screwing this guy Dunn. If he believed there really was a woman named Caroline who drove out to the West Coast with me, he would be sure she was some tramp I met in a bar. Be would not believe the suite in the Andrew Foster at all. Not that he thinks I'm an imaginative liar, but because all of that belongs to a world that he can 't even imagine.

  Instead, Galloway said, "You seem pissed off about it."

  "Pussy's in short supply in Hawaii, as you damned well know. A girl like that, she can do great things for morale. But it seems to me that if she wants to pass it around, she could find somebody who's not afraid to fight to pass it out to."

  Oh, shit! I can't let him get away with that!

  After a moment, Oblensky sensed the tension.

  "I say something wrong?" he asked.

  "Yeah, Steve, you did," Galloway said. "Did you really think I would just sit here, as your commanding officer, and let you accuse one of your officers-one of my officers-of cowardice?"

  "Everybody knows he ran away from Midway," Oblensky said.

  "No, goddamnit, everybody doesn't know that. Colonel Dawkins doesn't know, I don't know, and you goddamned sure don't know. You keep your mouth shut about Lieutenant Dunn. Not only in front of me, but everywhere."

  Oblensky looked at him in surprise, but said nothing.

  "There is an expected reply from a non-com when an officer gives him an order," Galloway said, coldly.

  Oblensky wet his lips. There was a just perceptible pause before he said, "Aye, aye, Sir."

  That was pretty chickenshit of you, Charley Galloway, pulling rank on him that way, Galloway thought. And then he thought: Fuck him. He was wrong. And that's why they give officers rank, to use it And then he had a final, more than a little satisfying, even a little smug
, thought: I didn't handle that badly at all Maybe I just can hack it as an officer, a squadron commander.

  (Two) OFFICER'S CLUB