Chapter Twelve.

(One)

HEADQUARTERS, MAG-21.

EWA USMC AIR STATION.

OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII.

1445 HOURS 7 JULY 1942.

Lieutenant David F. Schneider reached out and touched Lieutenant Jim Ward's arm as Ward tried to operate the door latch of Galloway's 1933 Ford convertible. Ward turned and looked at him.

"Don't you really think it would be a good idea if we took a shave and got into a fresh uniform before we go in here?"

"You heard what the man said. The man said the colonel is smart enough to know you lose the crease in your trousers when you spend twelve hours in an airplane. And the man, if I have to point this out, is now our commanding officer."

"But he hasn't changed much," Schneider said, "has he?"

"Meaning what?"

"You did understand that he gave that bare-chested gorilla of a sergeant of his permission to steal an auxiliary power unit generator someplace, from somebody who certainly needs it?"

Ward didn't reply.

"So that he can swap it to some other sergeant in the 2nd Raiders," Schneider went on, "for doing something to the machine guns that he's not competent, or too stupid, to do himself? The last I heard they call that 'misappropriation of government property.'"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jim Ward said.

"You were standing right there!" Schneider said indignantly, and then understood. "Oh," he said in disgust. "I see."

"I don't think you really do, Dave," Ward said. "Let me tell you something about yourself, Dave. Most of the time you're a pretty good guy; but hiding inside you--I guess all the time-is a real prick struggling to get out. I don't like you much when that happens."

Schneider looked at Ward for a time, and then he said slowly, "Your attitude wouldn't have anything to do with the relationship between Galloway and your Aunt Caroline, would it?"

"Probably that has something to do with it," Ward said. "But what I think it is, what I hope it is, is loyalty to my commanding officer."

Schneider snorted.

"You weren't sent here," Ward said. "You volunteered, so you could get out of flying R4Ds and into fighters. Galloway fixed it. If it wasn't for him, you'd still be at Quantico. You knew what Charley-Captain Galloway- was like when he let you volunteer. All you had to say was no."

"I can't believe that you are actually condoning what you saw him do with your own eyes."

Ward turned away and managed to get the door open. Then he walked quickly around the front of the car and intercepted Schneider as he was getting out.

"I never thought I would enjoy something like this," he said, "but I was wrong. You will recall, Lieutenant, that I am senior to you. By the authority therefore vested in me by the goddamned Naval Service, Lieutenant, I order you (a) to get back in the car; (b) to shut your fucking mouth; (c) and to sit there and don't move until I send for you. And be advised, Lieutenant, that if it comes down to it, I will swear on a stack of Bibles that when Sergeant Oblensky spoke with us, he was dressed like a fucking recruiting poster and said not one fucking word about a goddamned generator. You got that, Lieutenant?" "Jim," Schneider said. "Obviously, I..." "Your orders, Lieutenant, are to sit there with your fucking mouth shut," Ward said, spun on his heel, and walked to the door.

(Two) THRESHOLD, RUNWAY 17.

EWA MARINE CORPS AIR STATION.

OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII.

1450 HOURS 7 JULY 1942.

Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, had a dark secret, a true secret, shared with no one else. He wasn't sure if it was a character flaw, or whether it was something that happened to other people, too. But he knew that he didn't want it known, and that he could never ask anyone else if they were similarly affected. Or maybe similarly afflicted.

The cold truth was that in situations like this one-in the cockpit, with all the needles in the green, in the last few instants before he would shove the throttle forward and then touch his mike button and announce to the tower, with studied savoir faire, "Five Niner Niner rolling"-he was afraid.

He could tell himself that it was irrational, that he was a better pilot than most people he knew, that the aircraft he was about to fly was perfectly safe, that he had so many hours total time; and he could even remind himself that a study by the University of California had proved beyond reasonable doubt that a cretin (defined as the next step above morons) could be taught to fly; but it didn't work. At that moment- and all those other times-he had a very clear image of the airplane going out of control, smashing into the ground, rolling over, exploding. And it scared him. Sometimes his knees actually trembled. And more than once he had taken his hand from the stick so he could try to hold his shaking knees still.

Today, as he sat there waiting, he reminded himself of the command decision he had made vis-...-vis himself and Lieutenant Bill Dunn: who would fly what and why. Dunn was a good pilot, and he had done something Galloway had not done. He had met the enemy in aerial combat and shot down two airplanes. Galloway believed that there was no way to vicariously experience what it was like to have someone shooting at you.

That did not change, however, his belief that good pilots were a product of two qualities: natural ability and experience. He really believed that he was a better natural pilot than Dunn, and there was no question that he had much more experience.

The mission of VMF-229 at the moment was to become operational, which is to say its eighteen F4F-4 Wildcats and their pilots had to be made ready to go where the squadron was ordered to go, and to do what the squadron was ordered to do.

All his pilots were of course rated as Naval Aviators. Someone in authority had decreed that they were qualified to fly. But with Galloway's certain and Bill Dunn's possible exception, the pilots VMF-229 had so far were for all practical purposes novices. They were highly intelligent young men in superb physical condition who had passed through a prescribed course of training. But none of them had been flying for more than a year; and none of them, so far as Galloway had been able to determine, had ever been in trouble in the air.

And they were all impressed with Lieutenant Bill Dunn- understandably... if, in Galloway's judgment, rather naively. Dunn had been in combat, and he'd been hit and wounded, and he'd returned alive and with two kills.

All the same, just as soon as Big Steve Oblensky was able to make flyable two of the Wildcats they had trucked to Ewa from the docks at Pearl Harbor, Galloway flew against Dunn in half a dozen mock dogfights. He had no trouble outmaneuvering him the first time out, or the second, or the third; and he was starting to wonder if he should, so to speak, throw a dogfight, because consistently whipping Dunn was likely to humiliate him.

Then he thought that through and realized that humiliating Dunn was precisely the thing he should do. As the privates in a rifle squad should think, believe, that their sergeant was the best fucking rifle shot in the company, so should the lieutenant pilots of a fighter squadron believe that The Skipper was the best fucking airplane driver in Marine Aviation.

That policy seemed to have worked out well, even better than Galloway foresaw. For one thing, Dunn wasn't impressed with his own heroic accomplishment at Midway. So he was not humiliated when he was bested by a pilot who'd been flying when he was trying out for the junior varsity football team in high school.

For another, as the other pilots drifted into the squadron, Dunn let each of them know that The Skipper was really one hell of a pilot. Coming as it did from a pilot who had been wounded and scored two kills at Midway, Dunn's opinion was taken as Gospel.

And Galloway didn't let either himself or Dunn sit and rest on their accomplishments. He believed the simple old Marine Corps adage that the best way to learn something was to teach it. So he had Dunn up all the time teaching techniques of aerial combat and gunnery to the kids, honing his own skills in the process, and picking up time, which meant experience.

As for Galloway, whenever possible he did the test flying himself-simply because he was the best qualified pilot to do it. Most test flights were simply routine. If everything worked, they could be flown by one of the University of California's cretins. It was only when something went wrong that experience became important. An experienced pilot often sensed when something was about to go wrong, and so he could act to reduce the risk to the airplane before things went seriously bad. Even when some major system failed unexpectedly, an experienced pilot could often recover, and put the airplane back on the ground in one piece, while a pilot without his experience was likely not only to get himself killed, but to send the airplane to the junkyard, as well.

No aircraft assigned to VMF-229 had been lost-or even seriously damaged-during test flights. In Galloway's view this was a pretty good record... especially when you considered that three times the test pilot-C. M. Galloway- had lost power on take-off: When the fan of a Wildcat stopped spinning, the Wildcat didn't want to fly anymore; as soon as the power quit, the nose got heavy, and it started to stall. (Although the manual usually read like a sales brochure for Grumman, it nevertheless warned-in small print-that the aircraft became "excessively nose heavy in a power loss situation.") And then, even if you could keep it from stalling by getting it into a glide, the Wildcat sank like a rock.

Despite all that, Galloway somehow managed to bring each of those three aircraft down without cracking up the aircraft or the test pilot.

And so as Galloway sat there in the cockpit of the Wildcat he was testing that afternoon, cleared by the tower as Number One for take-off, and with all the needles in the green, it started to hit him that his anxious feelings, viewed objectively, just might be pretty goddamned ridiculous.

Captain Galloway pressed his mike button.

"Ewa," he said confidently, "Five Niner Niner. I'm experiencing a little roughness and low oil pressure. I want to check it out a moment."

"Roger, Five Niner Niner. Do you wish to leave the threshold at this time?"

"Five Niner Niner, negative. I think I'll be all right in a minute."

It would be a mistake I would regret all my life, correction, for all eternity, however the fuck long that is, if I took this bird off and crashed inflames with a letter from my girlfriend I hadn't read in my pocket.

He put his finger in his mouth, caught the index finger of the pigskin glove on his right hand between his teeth, and pulled the glove off. Then he repeated the process with the glove on his left hand. He took the envelope from his pocket and sniffed it.

I am probably fooling myself, but I think I can smell her perfume.

The envelope contained what Charley thought of as "ladies' stationery," a squarish, folded, rather stiff piece of paper. The outside bore a monogram. Scotch-taped to the inside was a small piece of jewelry, a round gold disc on a chain.

Jenkintown, June 30 '42 My Darling, This is an Episcopal serviceman's cross. I know you're not an Episcopalian; and now that I'm divorced (and for other reasons), I am a fallen Episcopalian woman. But I wish you would wear it anyway, to know that I am praying for you constantly.

It has occurred to me that the only time you will ever notice it is when it gets in your way when you're taking a shower. But perhaps that will remind you of the showers you have shared with someone who loves you and lives for the moment when she can feel your arms around her again.

All my love, now and forever, Caroline Charley Galloway reached up and shoved his goggles up on his forehead. For some reason, his eyes were watering. He pried the medallion loose from the Scotch tape and looked at it. He tried to open the clasp on the gold chain, but couldn't manage it. There was no way he could get that fragile gold chain over his head. So he leaned forward and looped it around the adjustment knob of the altimeter on the control panel, then tugged on it to make sure vibration wouldn't shake it off.

He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, put his goggles back in place, worked his hands back into his gloves, and put them on the throttle and the stick. He inched the throttle forward and turned onto the runway. Then he moved the throttle to full take-off power, and pushed his mike button.

"Ewa," he said, with practiced savoir faire, "Five Niner Niner rolling."

Four hundred yards down the runway, he spoke to the engine.

"Don't you dare crap out on me now, you sonofabitch!"

A moment after that, F4F-4 tail number 40599 of VMF-229 lifted off into the air.

(Three) HEADQUARTERS, MAG-21.

EWA USMC AIR STATION.

OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII.

1445 HOURS 7 JULY 1942.

Lieutenant Colonel Clyde D. Dawkins, USMC, commanding, MAG-21, was by no means unhappy with First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR. He would have been happier, of course, if Ward had another five hundred hours of flight time, all of it in F4F-4s; but compared to the other replacement pilots they were getting fresh from Pensacola, Ward was a grizzled veteran.

He liked his attitude, too, which was not surprising, since Charley Galloway had recruited him. Galloway would not recruit a fool or a troublemaker.

"Captain Galloway until recently was a flying sergeant. Is that going to pose any problems for you?"

"Yes, Sir," Ward replied. "I mean I knew he was a flying sergeant. He was a sergeant when he taught me to fly the R4D, Sir." The question had obviously surprised him. "I don't know what you mean about problems, Sir."

"Well, Mr. Ward, there are some officers, generally very stupid officers, who resent Mustangs. I'm pleased to see that you're not one of them."

"No, Sir. I consider myself very fortunate to have a squadron commander who knows what he's doing."

Dawkins restrained a smile at the honest naivet of the remark.

"Mr. Ward," he said sternly, "you are not suggesting, I trust, that there are squadron commanders who do not know what they are doing?"

Ward flushed.

"Sir," he began lamely.

"I know what you mean, Mr. Ward," Dawkins laughed. "That works both ways. I'm glad to have Charley Galloway as one of my squadron commanders. I share your opinion that he knows what he's doing. I will refrain from comment on my other squadron commanders."

"Yes, Sir," Ward said. His relief was evident on his face.

"I thought there were two of you?" Dawkins said.

"Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Schneider is outside."

Dawkins stood up and offered his hand. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Ward. We're glad to have you. I'm available to my officers for any reason, around the clock."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Would you send Mister-what did you say, 'Schneider'?-in please?"

"Yes, Sir."

Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins was initially very favorably impressed with First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC. He was a well-set-up young man; he looked remarkably crisp for someone who had just flown from the States to Hawaii. And he wore an Annapolis ring. Colonel Dawkins had been commissioned from Annapolis.

There were very few officers in the pre-war Navy who were not Annapolis graduates.

There was a theory... it was soon to be tested in the crucible of war... that the real value of Annapolis graduates to the country did not derive from their experience manning the ships of the peacetime Navy, but from the fact that they would now serve as the firm skeleton for the flesh and musculature of the enormous Navy that would be required to win the war.

Some of this would come from the presumed professionalism and Naval expertise that could be expected of a man who had spent his life, from the age of seventeen or eighteen, in Naval uniform. The rest would come because the Annapolis graduates-from ensigns, to first lieutenants, USMC, to admirals-would serve as role models for an officer corps that would be seventy or eighty percent civilian Marines and sailors. Dawkins privately thought that this was the more important of the two.

Even if they had difficulty admitting this in person to a graduate of Hudson High, virtually all Annapolis graduates both admired and tried hard to adhere to the code West Point put in words, Duty, Honor, Country.

And so Dawkins felt at first that Galloway was fortunate to have someone like Schneider in his squadron. He even imagined, somewhat wryly, that Schneider might be able to temper Charley Galloway's policy that he had greater right to any government property that was not chained to the ground or under armed guard than whoever it was issued to.

He was so impressed with Schneider that he almost passed over the question he had asked Lieutenant Ward, and in fact every other officer newly assigned to VMF-229. But in the end, he did ask him: "Captain Galloway until recently was a flying sergeant. Is that going to pose any problems for you?"

"No, Sir. Not for me, Sir."

Why don't I like that response? What did he say? "Not for me"?

"Not for you? Is that what you said, Mr. Schneider? Are you suggesting that it might be a problem for Captain Galloway?"

"Sir," Schneider said, with a disarming smile, "I'm a regular. I know that before Captain Galloway was commissioned, a good deal of thought went into it. I certainly don't mean to suggest that Captain Galloway is not a first rate squadron commander."

"But?"

"Sir, what I'm saying, badly I'm afraid, is that I really wish I hadn't served with Captain Galloway when he was an enlisted man."

What bothers me about that? Dawkins wondered, and then he understood: You didn't serve with Charley Galloway, Lieutenant, with him on your wing, or vice versa. He was your IP. By definition, IPs are superior to their students. I'm getting the idea, you presumptuous puppy, that you think an officer of suitable grade should have been assigned to instruct an officer and a gentleman and an Annapolis graduate such as yourself.

"Because you will always think of him as a sergeant, you mean?"