"Who was that?"
"I don't think giving you his name would be appropriate," Dawkins said.
"What has... you said 'Dunn'?... got to say for himself?"
"Dunn says that he has no memory of flying back to Midway at all."
"What do you think?"
"I believe that Dunn doesn't remember flying back to Midway."
"How come I get this guy?"
"I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt," Dawkins said.
Galloway started to say something and changed his mind. Dawkins saw it.
"Say it, Charley."
"Nothing, Sir."
"Say it, Charley," Dawkins repeated.
"Actually, I was thinking two things, Sir. The first was that when a good Marine gets an order, even one he doesn't think he can handle, he says 'Aye, aye, Sir' and does his best."
"You mean you don't think you can handle a squadron?"
"I can handle a squadron. But there are squadrons and squadrons, and it looks like mine is staffed with sixteen enlisted Marines who are almost certainly the ones their squadron commanders figured they could do without; plus pickled aircraft that I have to unpickle with somebody else's rejects; plus, of course, an officer one jump ahead of a court-martial."
"Is that all one thought? You said you had two?"
"I was thinking, Colonel, that you wouldn't screw me unless you had no choice. But if the brass is making you set me up to fuck up so I can be relieved, why don't we just jump to that? Give the squadron to somebody else, and just let me fly. I didn't ask for the bars; all I ever wanted to do is fly fighters. I mean, I'll take a bust back to sergeant..."
"That's quite enough, Captain," Dawkins said furiously. "Shut down your mouth. How dare you suggest, you sonofabitch, that I would be party to something like that?"
"Sorry, Sir," Galloway said after a long moment, during which he realized that Dawkins was waiting for a response.
"You're going to have to learn, Galloway, to engage your brain before opening your mouth," Dawkins said more calmly. "Just for your information, I was given the option of not giving you VMF-229. I'm giving it to you because you're the best man I have available to take the job."
"Yes, Sir."
"I wish I had an operational squadron I could just turn over to you, fully equipped with flyable aircraft, qualified mechanics, and whatever else is called for. I don't. All I have to give you is what I told you, airplanes sitting on a wharf and a handful of half-trained kids to get them up and running. I'll do my damnedest to get you anything else you think you need, but the shelves are pretty goddamned bare."
They looked at each other without speaking for a long moment.
"Can I have Oblensky, Sir?"
"What?"
"Tech Sergeant Oblensky, Sir," Galloway said. "I know he's here. I asked."
Dawkins looked unhappy. He made three starts, stopping each time before a word left his mouth, before asking, "Do you think it is a good idea, Captain, theoretically or practically, for a non-commissioned officer to be assigned to a squadron commanded by an officer with whom he served as a non-com? Who was his best pal when they were sergeants together?"
"From what you've told me about the men you're going to give me, Sir," Galloway said, "I'll either have to have Big Steve, or somebody like him, or get those airplanes flyable myself."
"Captain Galloway, if I hear that you have been seen with a wrench in your hand, you will spend the rest of this war with a wrench in your hand. Clear?"
"Does that mean I get Oblensky, Sir?"
"I finally have something in common with the Commandant, Galloway. Acting against my better judgment, I'm going to give you something I don't think you should have."
"Thank you, Sir."
"That will be all, Captain Galloway. Thank you."
Chapter Eight
(One)
HEADQUARTERS
MARINE AIR GROUP TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21)
EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1135 HOURS 27 JUNE 1942
PFC Alfred B. Hastings, who was seventeen and had been in the Corps not quite five months, had just about finished drying with a chamois a glistening yellow 1933 Ford convertible coupe, when he noticed that his labor had attracted the attention of an officer.
The Ford was parked in the shade of Hangar Three. When Hastings was finished, his orders were to return the car to the other side of the hangar, to a parking space lettered MAINTENANCE NCO.
For a long moment, PFC Hastings pretended he did not see the officer, who was a captain and an aviator. He did that for two reasons. First, he had slipped out of the sleeves of his coveralls and tied them around his waist, which left him in his sleeveless undershirt and thus out of uniform. Second, despite the dedicated efforts of his drill instructors at the San Diego Recruit Depot to instill in him a detailed knowledge of the Customs of the Service as they applied to military courtesy, he was not sure what was now required of him.
The basic rule was that officers got saluted by enlisted men. But it wasn't quite that simple. You were not supposed to salute indoors unless you were under arms. That meant actually carrying your rifle, or a symbol of it like a cartridge belt. And you were not supposed to salute when you were on a labor detail. The NCO in charge of the labor detail was supposed to do that, first calling "attention" and then saluting the officer on behalf of the entire labor detail.
I suppose, PFC Hastings finally decided, that since I am the only one on this labor detail, I am in charge, and supposed to salute. And that sonofabitch obviously isn't going to go away. He's looking at the car like he never saw a '33 Ford before.
And I don't think anybody ever got in real trouble in the Corps for saluting when they really didn't have to.
He gave the chrome V-8 insignia on the front of the hood a final wipe, stepped back a foot; and then, as if he had first noticed the officer just then, he popped to attention and saluted.
"Good afternoon, Sir!" PFC Hastings barked. At the same moment, he realized that coming to attention had rearranged his hips so that the bottom of his coveralls was sliding down off them.
"Good afternoon," Captain Charley Galloway said, crisply returning the salute and doing his best not to laugh. "Stand at ease and grab your pants."
"Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
PFC Hastings quickly untied the sleeves of his coveralls, shoved his arms through them, and buttoned the garment as regulations required. When he looked up, he saw that the Captain was carefully inspecting the Ford's interior. He took a chance.
"Nice car, isn't it, Sir?"
"Yes, it is," Galloway said, smiling at PFC Hastings. "And Sergeant Oblensky lets you take care of it for him, does he?"
"Yes, Sir," PFC Hastings said, a touch of pride in his voice. "I try to keep it shipshape for him, Sir."
"And you seem to have done so very well," Galloway said.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Do you happen to know where Sergeant Oblensky is?"
"Yes, Sir. He's inside, in the hangar, I mean."
"Would you please find Sergeant Oblensky and tell him I'd like a word with him, please?"