"I understand, Sir," Hon said. He looked at his watch. "Captain, what time is your plane?"
Pickering looked at his watch.
"Christ," he said. "And I didn't give you the coffee I promised."
"No problem, Sir."
"Moore can drive me to the airport, Pluto. You don't have to go."
"I'd like to see you off, Sir, if that would be all right."
"Why thank you, Pluto," Pickering said. He looked at Ellen. "Sorry to have to leave you in the lurch like this."
'Take care of yourself, Fleming," Ellen Feller said.
Why does the way she said that make me suddenly think that they have been making the beast with two backs?... Even after the modest declaration she just gave about how my-husband-and-I-were-missionaries-in-China and Fleming-and-I-are-just-old-friends?
Because you're a dirty-minded young man, Pluto Hon, who hasn't had his own ashes hauled in so long you probably wouldn't know what to do with an erection.
"Where's your bags, Sir?" Hon asked.
"I'll get them," Moore said.
"I'll carry my own damned bags, thank you," Captain Pickering said.
(Four)
HEADQUARTERS, VMF-229
EWA USMC AIR STATION
OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1555 HOURS 25 JULY 1942
Corporal Alfred B. Hastings, USMC, followed Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, into his office.
"Whatever it is, Corporal Hastings, fuck it," Captain Galloway said. "Your beloved commanding officer has had it for today."
Galloway's cotton flight suit was sweat soaked. His hair was matted on his skull, and his hands and face were covered with a film of oil. He looked exhausted. He settled himself like an old man in the chair behind his desk.
"It's the colonel, Sir," Hastings said. "He said for you to phone him the minute you got in."
"Did he say what he wanted?"
"No, Sir, but he's called three times."
Galloway pointed to the telephone on his desk. Hastings took the handset from the cradle, listened for a dial tone, handed the handset to Galloway, and then dialed a number.
"This is Captain Galloway, Sergeant. I understand the colonel wants to speak at me."
Hastings left the room. He returned a moment later with a bottle of Coke, which he set on Galloway's desk. Galloway covered the microphone with his hand.
"Bless you, my son," he intoned solemnly.
"Yes, Sir," Hastings said, smiling.
"Galloway, Sir," Charley said to the telephone. "I just got in."
"And how many hours is that today, Captain Galloway?" Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins asked, innocently. "I haven't checked my log book, Sir."
"But you can tell time and count, right? Up to say five hours and forty-five minutes?"
What the hell has he done? Gone and checked the goddamned board?
"Was it that much, Sir?"
"You know goddamned well it was," Dawkins said. "On the other hand, if you're dumb enough not to believe me when I say I don't want you flying more than four hours, maybe you are too dumb to count."
"Yes, Sir."
"But that is not the reason, at least the main reason, I wanted this little chat with you, Captain Galloway."
"Sir?"
"Knowing as I do your penchant for obeying only those orders you find it convenient to obey, I suppose it's hoping too much to expect you to have a white uniform for formal occasions?"
"Sir, I have a set of whites."
"Just in passing, I believe the regulation says you are required to have two sets. Is the one set you have suitably starched and pressed for wear at a formal occasion, for example, taking cocktails and dinner with an admiral?"
Charley took a quick mental inventory of his closet in the BOQ. His whites, never worn, were there, still in the bag they'd come in. If they weren't pressed, he had an iron. "Yes, Sir," he said.
"Good. The admiral will be pleased. He is sending his car for us at 1830. Try not to spill tomato juice on your whites between now and then. With you owning only one set, that would pose a problem."
"What admiral is that, Sir?"
"Take a guess."
Since Charley was reasonably convinced that for reasons he could not imagine, Dawkins was pulling his chain about dinner with some admiral, he could not resist the temptation: "Admiral Nimitz?"
"No. Close, but no. Guess again."
Christ, he's serious!
"I have no idea," he confessed.
"I'll give you a hint: How many officers do you have with uncles who are admirals?"
"Oh, Christ! What's he want?"
"I don't know. What I do know is that his aide was over here around noon-in his whites by the way, with the golden rope and everything-bearing an invitation for you and me to take cocktails and dinner with the admiral at his quarters. The admiral is sending his car for us, and the uniform is whites."
"Jesus!" Charley said.
"Have you been saying unkind things to Lieutenant Schneider, Charley?"
"No. I was just flying with him, as a matter-of-fact. He's doing very well, and I just told him so. He's going to be all right, Colonel."
"Well, he is not, repeat not, to be informed of where you and I are going tonight. The way the aide put it was, 'the admiral thinks that it would be best if Lieutenant Schneider didn't hear of this.'"
"I wonder what the hell is going on?"
"Considering how you ignore me when I tell you I don't want you flying more than four hours a day, I wonder if you will be able to keep our dinner plans a secret from Lieutenant Schneider."
That won't be a problem. Schneider at this very moment is probably already showered, shaved, shined, and doused with cologne, and breathing through flared nostrils as he arranges tonight's rendezvous with Mary Agnes O'Malley; he won't surface until tomorrow morning, looking wan, exhausted, and visibly satiated.
"That won't be a problem, Sir."
"You told me that keeping your flying under four hours a day wasn't going to be a problem, either, as I recall," Colonel Dawkins said. "My quarters, not a second after six-thirty. We don't want to keep the admiral waiting, do we, Charley?"
Colonel Dawkins hung up while Charley was on the "No" of "No, Sir."
At 1825 Admiral Daniel J. Wagam's aide-de-camp arrived at Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins's BOQ in the Admiral's Navy gray Plymouth staff car. Captain Charles M. Galloway arrived a moment later in his nine-year-old yellow Ford roadster. By the time Charley found a place to park the Ford, Colonel Dawkins had emerged from the building and was standing by the Plymouth.
The admiral's aide, a Lieutenant (j.g.), got in the front seat beside the driver, affording Captain Galloway, in deference to his rank, the privilege of riding in the back. Charley had often wondered why in military protocol the back seat represented privilege and prestige. If he were the brass hat, he would have chosen to ride in front, where there was often more room and you could see better.