"God, you're so beautiful!" he said.

"So are you," she said.

And then he surprised her very much by pushing himself off the bed. She raised her head to look at him. He walked to the other side of the bed and sat down and reached for her telephone.

"Father," he said into it. "Uncle Bill and I have had a long talk and a lot to drink, and I think it would be best if I stayed over with him at the Union League, rather than driving."

There was a pause, and then Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, said: "You're going to have to understand, Father, that I'm no longer a child. I can drink whatever and whenever I wish."

There was another pause.

"There's something else, Father. My orders have been changed. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon. When Mother's awake, please tell her that I'll be out there sometime before noon to pack. I have to see Mr. Schuyler at First Philadelphia, first."

One final pause.

"I think you know why I have to see Mr. Schuyler, Father," John said.

A moment later, he took the receiver from his ear and looked at it.

It was clear to Barbara Ward (Mrs. Howard P.) Hawthorne, Jr., that John's father had hung up on him. There was pain in his eyes when he turned from putting the receiver in its cradle and looked at her.

"Oh, Baby," she said. "Whatever that was, I'm sorry."

"Do you think you could manage to call me 'Darling,' or 'Sweetheart,' or something besides 'Baby'?... I'll even settle happily for 'John.'"

She held her arms open.

"Come to me, my darling," she said.

He didn't move.

"I thought you wanted me to leave."

She put her arms down and pulled the sheet up and held it over her breast.

She found his eyes and looked into them and said, "I want what's best for you."

"You're what's best for me."

"You really have to leave tomorrow? Which is really, now, today?"

"No. Thursday."

"Then why... ?"

"I want to be with you until I go."

She took her eyes from his and lowered her head and fought the tears. Then she raised her eyes to his again and opened her arms again and said, "Come to me, John, my darling, my sweetheart."

And this time he went to her.

Chapter Six.

(One)

HEADQUARTERS.

MARINE AIR GROUP TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21).

EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII.

1325 HOURS 19 JUNE 1942.

Lieutenant Colonel Clyde G. Dawkins, USMC, Commanding MAG-21, was a tall, thin, sharp-featured man who wore his light brown hair so closely cropped that the tanned and sun-freckled flesh of his scalp was visible.

He was wearing a stiffly starched khaki shirt with a field scarf tied in a tiny knot. A gold collar clasp held the collar points together and the knot in the field scarf erect. He had heard somewhere that the collar clasp was now frowned upon; but that brought the same reaction from him as the suggestion from Pearl Harbor that since Navy Naval Aviators were now discouraged from wearing their fur-collared leather flight jackets when not actually engaged in flying activities, it behooved him to similarly discourage Marine Naval Aviators from wearing their flight jackets when not actually on the flight line: He said nothing; thought, Fuck You; and wore both a collar clasp and his leather flight jacket almost all the time, fully aware that if he did so, the Marine Naval Aviators of MAG-21 would presume it was not only permissible but encouraged.

He was not at all a rebel by nature. He did not relish defying higher authority, even when he knew he could get away with it. But he was a practical man, and the wearing of flight jackets by aviators seemed far more practical and convenient than forcing his officers to waste time taking off and putting on their uniform tunics half a dozen times a day. And the gold collar clasp, in his judgment, struck him as a splendid means to keep an officer's collar points where they belonged, even if some people in The Corps thought of it as "civilian-type jewelry." An officer with one of his collar points in a horizontal attitude looked far more slovenly than one with his collar points fixed in the proper attitude with a barely visible piece of "civilian jewelry."

The officer standing somewhat uncomfortably before Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins's desk had performed well in the Battle of Midway. His name was Captain Thomas J. Wood. He was young and newly promoted; he was wearing a fur-collared flight jacket and a collar clasp; and he was standing with his hands clasped together behind him in the small of his back.

But there was something about him-an impetuosity, an indecisiveness-that Dawkins did not like. Dawkins believed that a good officer made decisions slowly, and then stuck by them.

"It's time to fish or cut bait, Tom," Dawkins said, not unkindly.

"Uh... Sir, I decline to press charges."

"So be it," Dawkins said.

"Sir, I saw what I saw, but I can't..."

"That will be all, Captain," Dawkins said. There was now a hint of ice in his voice. "You are dismissed."

The captain came to attention.

"Yes, Sir," he said. He did an about-face and started to march out of the room.

"Ask Major Lorenz to come in, please," Dawkins called to him.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Major Karl J. Lorenz, who was the Executive Officer of MAG-21, walked into the office. Lorenz looked, Dawkins often thought, like a recruiting poster for the Waffen-SS-in other words like an Aryan of impeccable Nordic-Teutonic heritage, blond-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and lithely muscular.

"You wanted me, Skipper?" he asked.

"Close the door, please," Dawkins said.

Lorenz did so.

"After some thought," Dawkins said, "he declined to press charges."

"Huh," Lorenz said thoughtfully. "Probably a good thing, Sir. It would have been hard to make those charges stick."

"Not a good thing, Karl," Dawkins said.

"You think we should have tried him?" Lorenz asked, surprised.

"I think before young Captain Wood started running off at the mouth, he should have made up his mind whether or not he was prepared to carry an accusation of cowardice through."

"Oh," Lorenz replied. "Yes, Sir, I see what you mean."

"He doesn't really know any more than I do-and I wasn't there-if Dunn ran away from that fight or not. Cowardice in the face of the enemy... that's the worst accusation that can be made."

"I presume you told Wood that?"

"No. I didn't want to influence his decision, one way or the other."

"Can I ask what you think?"

"I already told you, I don't think Wood-really knows. Or, if you were asking, do I think Dunn ran?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I think we're going to have to give him the benefit of the doubt. He says he doesn't remember when, or under what conditions, he broke off the engagement. I don't think he does. He lost his windscreen and he was wounded. The question is, when did that happen? Before or after he started back to Midway? He didn't run before the fight. He got a Kate. There's no question about that. And then he got a Zero. Again, confirmed beyond any question. And then the next time he's seen, he's on his way back to Midway. Close enough to be recognized beyond any doubt, but too far away for anyone to be able to state with certainty that he had, or had not, already lost his windshield."

"I realize, Sir, I haven't been asked, but in those circumstances I would be prone to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Ascribing Wood's charges to post-combat hysteria?"

"Something like that, Sir."

"Unfortunately, although he elected not to pursue them, Wood's charges are going to be remembered by a lot of people for a long time-made worse in the retelling, of course."

"What are you going to do with Dunn, Sir?" Lorenz said, after a moment.

"You and I are about to visit Lieutenant Dunn in the hospital; there I will express my pleasure that he will be discharged tomorrow, present him with his Purple Heart Medal, and inform him that he is now assigned to VMF-229. I think he will understand why it would be awkward for him to return to VMF-211. I hope he doesn't ask me for an explanation."

"Two-twenty-nine, Sir?" Lorenz asked, surprised.

Dawkins nodded. 'Two-twenty-nine."

"Sir, we haven't activated VMF-229 yet."

"It is activated," Dawkins said and paused to look at his watch, "as of 1300 hours today. Its personnel consists of one officer, absent in hospital, and one officer, en route, not yet joined. See that the order is typed up."

"Who did you decide to give it to, Sir?"

"A good Marine officer, Major," Dawkins said, "is always willing to carefully consider the recommendations of his superiors."

"Sir?"

Dawkins chuckled, opened a desk drawer, and handed Lorenz a sheet of yellow teletype paper.

ROUTINE.

CONFIDENTIAL.

HQ USMC WASH DC 1445 14JUNE42.

COMMANDING OFFICER.

MAG-21 EWA TH.

CAPTAIN CHARLES M. GALLOWAY, USMCR, HAVING REPORTED UPON ACTIVE DUTY, HAS BEEN ORDERED TO PROCEED BY AIR TO EWA FOR DUTY AS COMMANDING OFFICER VMF-229. WHILE THIS ASSIGNMENT HAS THE CONCURRENCE OF THE COMMANDANT AND THE UNDERSIGNED YOU ARE OF COURSE AT LIBERTY TO ASSIGN THIS OFFICER TO ANY DUTIES YOU WISH. D.G. MCINERNEY BRIG GEN USMC.

"I will be goddamned," Lorenz said.

"I thought you might find that surprising," Dawkins said.

"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.