"Good morning, Captain, welcome aboard."
"Thank you, Sir."
"You get settled all right, Charley?"
"I told the kid in the truck to take me to the NCO billet," Galloway said.
"Did you really?" Dawkins chuckled. "Well, I guess being an officer-a squadron commander-will take some getting used to. But I'm sure you can handle it, Charley. Stand at ease, for Christ's sake. Sit down, as a matter-of-fact."
He pointed to an armchair, and Charley sat down. Its cushions were as exhausted as the cushions on the chair in the outer office.
"Thank you, Sir. That was after he told me he'd never heard of VMF-229."
Dawkins laughed.
"That's because most of VMF-229 resides in Karl Lorenz's desk drawer," he said. "You remember Lorenz, of course?"
"Yes, Sir. Sure."
"Right now VMF-229 consists of you, another officer, and eleven F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl Harbor, covered with all the protective crap they put on them when they ship them as deck cargo."
Galloway's eyebrows rose.
"What about men?"
"Lorenz levied the other squadrons for personnel for you. They came up-after a lot of breast beating-with a list of sixteen enlisted men. Some of them are alleged to be mechanics, and there is an alleged clerk, an alleged truck driver, and an alleged armorer. None of them is more than a buck sergeant. You have authority, of course, to draw whatever equipment and personnel is authorized for a fighter squadron."
"How much of what is authorized is going to be available when I go try to draw it?"
"Not much, Charley," Dawkins said. "Supply is a little better than it was, but not much."
"What about pilots?"
"Right now there's two of you. They dribble in all the time. Sometimes one at a time on a courier plane, sometimes two dozen when a carrier or cruiser from 'Diego or 'Frisco puts into Pearl, sometimes lately, three or four at a time on tin cans and merchantmen. As you get your planes operational, I'll see that you have pilots. They won't have much time, I'm afraid, they'll be right out of Pensacola."
"Ouch," Galloway said. "I've got some pilots, pretty good pilots, coming. General Mclnerney authorized me to steal five from Quantico and Pensacola." "Only five?"
"I sent him nine names. I didn't have to ask for volunteers. When the word got out I was getting a squadron, people came looking for me. Everybody wants to get over here, even if it means being in a squadron commanded by a flying sergeant." "Hold it right there, Captain," Dawkins said sharply. He had just been thinking that Captain Charles M. Galloway looked like everything one expected a Marine captain to look like. He was erect and trim, neatly barbered, in a well-fitting uniform. There was an aura of competence and command about him.
"Sir?"
"That's the last time I ever want to hear you refer to yourself as a 'flying sergeant,' " Dawkins said. "I don't even want you thinking of yourself as a 'flying sergeant.' When you pinned those bars on, you stopped being a flying sergeant. Is that clear enough for you, Captain?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Dawkins held Galloway's eyes with his own for a long moment.
"Scuttlebutt going around is that someone interesting personally gave you those bars, Charley. Anything to that story?"
"Yes, Sir. They had me flying a VIP R4D out of Quantico. I'd just come back from a round robin, Pensacola, New River, Philadelphia, and back to Quantico. When I parked the airplane, the Operations Officer told me to report to the VIP quarters. I walked in expecting some congressman or movie star needing a ride, and what I got was the Commandant."
"No crap?"
"Him and General Mclnerney. Five minutes later, I was a captain."
"Just like that?"
"He gave me a little speech, Sir, that I won't forget for a while."
"Oh?"
"He said that, acting on General Mclnerney's recommendation, and against his own better judgment, he was going to give me captain's bars, and that I goddamn well better forget thinking I was Errol Flynn or Ronald Reagan and start acting like a Marine captain."
"Sounds like sound advice," Dawkins chuckled. "Christ, you really had the Navy mad at you. For a while, there was guilt by association."
"Sir?"
"There was talk-serious talk-about court-martialing Lenny Martin for being conveniently absent when you flew that F4F out of here to rendezvous with Task Force XIV. 'Dereliction of Duty' was the way they put it."
Captain Leonard Martin had been the senior officer of VMF-211 present (and thus in command) when Galloway reported that he and the maintenance sergeant, Technical Sergeant Stefan "Big Steve" Oblensky, had repaired one of the shot-up F4Fs and that he intended to fly it out to the Saratoga.
Captain Martin had reminded Tech Sergeant Galloway that BUAIR engineers had officially classified the F4F as totally destroyed and that therefore, it was obviously unsafe to fly. He had also pointed out that even if there had been an officially flyable aircraft available, orders would have to be issued before it could be flown anywhere. And obviously, since the location of Sara was a closely guarded secret, Tech Sergeant Galloway had a practically nonexistent chance of finding it.
Quite unnecessarily, he had informed Tech Sergeant Galloway that his intended flight was against regulations and thus forbidden. And then, as he shook Tech Sergeant Galloway's hand, he had mentioned idly, in passing, that he had business at Pearl Harbor and would not be at the airfield at the time Galloway said he wanted to take off.
"Sir, is Captain Martin-still in trouble?"
"Not anymore, Charley. He was shot down at Midway."
"Shit!" Galloway said bitterly, adding, "I hadn't heard that."
"He was flying a goddamned Buffalo. We lost all of them but one."
"He was a good guy," Galloway said, softly.
"Most of them were," Dawkins said.
Galloway looked at him with a question in his eyes, and then put it in a word: " 'Most'?"
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Dawkins said. "But I was thinking-speaking ill of the dead-that it is possible to be both a dead hero and a prick. But you've touched on something else that needs to be discussed."
"I'm afraid you've lost me, Sir."
"The other officer presently assigned to VMF-229, Captain, is First Lieutenant, USMCR, William C. Dunn. He was also at Midway with VMF-211. Flying an F4F. He has- confirmed-both a Kate and a Zero."
"Dunn?" Galloway asked, thoughtfully. "I don't think I remember..."
"Nice-looking young kid. He came aboard after you were returned to the States in such glory," Dawkins said dryly. "He took what we think was a 20mm round, an explosive shell, in his windscreen. It almost turned him into a soprano. He managed to get the airplane back to Midway, totaling it on landing. It was full of holes, in addition to the 20mm, I mean."
"Sounds like a good man," Charley said.
"Very possibly he is," Dawkins said carefully. "But there is some question, I'm afraid -serious question, about whether he took the round that filled his crotch with shrapnel and fragments while he was engaging the enemy, or after he'd already decided to fly back to Midway."
"You're saying he ran?"
"Listen carefully. What I said was 'serious question.' The officer-there was more than one, but the officer who made the most serious accusations-decided, on reflection, not to bring charges against him."