Well, that explains what the kid is doing here; Carstairs wants us in the staff car with him.
"Sure," Dunn said, and then had a second thought. "Can you drive an automatic shift? That's my mother's car, all the new gadgets."
Larsen's face fell.
"Sir, no, Sir, I never drove a car with an automatic shift, Sir."
"Show him how, Dunn," Carstairs ordered.
"You just put it in 'R' for 'Race' and step on the gas," Pick offered helpfully.
"God, you must really want to be a basic flight instructor, Mr. Pickering," Carstairs said.
"I'd forgotten about that," Pick said. "I am now on my very best behavior."
"You'd better be, when we get over there," Carstairs said.
"OK," Pick said.
"I had dinner with Martha last night. She was disgustingly pleased to hear that you were safely home. I think she expects you to call her. Have you?"
"No. I told you. She's made herself pretty clear about how she feels about me. I don't see any point in calling her."
"Suit yourself, Pick," Carstairs said.
Dunn came back.
"He can handle the car all right," he said. "When it works, any idiot can do it."
"When it works?"
"It broke when my mother was driving over the causeway to Mobile; just refused to move another inch. It's supposed to have been fixed."
"Well, he'll be following us," Carstairs said. "It shouldn't be a problem. You ride in the front, Pickering. Dunn and I will ride in the back."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
[FIVE]
Corey Field
Escambia County, Florida
0820 Hours 2 November 1942
Because he had a good view from the front seat of the car, Pickering saw the four Grumman F4F4 Wildcats almost from the moment the Plymouth passed inside the gate.
And he instantly understood what they were doing there. They were props in a bullshit session. He had gone through much the same thing himself, once upon a time. Aviation cadets (or in his and Dick Stecker's case, student officers) were gathered someplace shortly after reporting aboard, and a couple of fighters or dive-bombers were flown in from someplace and put on display: This is what you will be privileged to fly if you work ever so hard and shine your shoes properly and don't kill yourself in a Yellow Peril learning how.
He was surprised that the Plymouth headed in the direction of the Wildcats. Two of them were parked nose to nose, in front of bleachers... as though they were on a stage, or were part of a classroom display. The other two were parked to one side, on the grass between the ramp and a runway. As they drove closer, he saw that the bleachers were full of Naval Aviation cadets. Some of these were in flight suits, and some were in their sailor suits. There were only a few Marines.
Of course there's only a few Marines, stupid! We 're always outnumbered at least ten to one by the goddamned Navy. I wonder what the hell is going on here. There's an admiral's flag, and a staff car to go with it, and I'll be damned, a little tent. I'll bet they put up the tent so the Admiral can take a piss without having to walk a hundred yards. It must be a graduation ceremony or something.
The Plymouth headed right for the other staff car and pulled up beside it.
What the hell is this?
"Out, gentlemen," Carstairs ordered from the rear seat.
The door of the Plymouth beside them was opened by a white hat. An admiral stepped out, and then Colonel Porter got out the other side.
Captain Carstairs saluted.
"Good morning, Admiral," he said. "May I present, Sir, Lieutenant William C. Dunn and Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering?"
"Lieutenant Dunn, I consider it an honor to make your acquaintance," Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, USN, said, offering his hand. Then he turned to Lieutenant Pickering and put his arm around his shoulder as he shook his hand.
"Welcome home, Pick," Martha Sayre Culhane's father said, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you."
"Thank you, Sir," Pick said.
Dunn and Colonel Porter looked at them with wide eyes.
"How have you set this up, Porter?" Admiral Sayre asked.
"Captain Carstairs will go out there whenever you're ready, Admiral. Attention on deck will be called. Captain Carstairs will then introduce you. We will then proceed to the microphone, with Dunn following you, and Pickering following Dunn. The three of us will take our seats."
"Where's the band? Why isn't the band here?"
"They had a commitment elsewhere, Sir, I'm afraid," Colonel Porter replied.
"Well, it's too late to do anything about it now," Admiral Sayre said somewhat petulantly. "But the band should have been here."
"Sorry, Sir," Colonel Porter said.
"OK. Let's get rolling," Admiral Sayre ordered.
As Captain Carstairs marched out to a lectern set up on a small stage, the others formed in line behind Admiral Sayre. Colonel Porter was next, and he was followed by Dunn, Pickering, and Admiral Sayre's aide-de-camp, a Lieutenant J. G., who was carrying a manila envelope.
Carstairs reached the microphone.
"Attention on deck!" he ordered, his voice amplified over a loudspeaker system. Everybody in the bleachers came to attention... including, Pick noticed, four guys in flight suits sitting at the end of the bleachers in the front row.
The guys who flew the Wildcats in, he decided. They are almost certainly as deeply impressed with this bullshit as I am.
"Gentlemen," Carstairs' amplified voice announced, "Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, U.S. Navy."
Admiral Sayre immediately started to march to the platform. The others followed. Pick became aware that Dunn, ahead of him, was going through the little shuffle known as "getting in step." He realized that he was doing the same thing.
A Pavlovian reflex, he thought. It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, it is indelibly engraved on your brain. When the occasion arises you do it, just like one of Pavlov's goddamned dogs.
Admiral Sayre marched toward the lectern. Colonel Porter then led the others toward a row of folding chairs while Sayre's aide marched up and stood behind Admiral Sayre. A moment later, Sayre glanced over his shoulder to see that everyone was where they were supposed to be.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Admiral Sayre said to the microphone.
Three hundred male voices responded, "Good morning, Sir!"
"Take your seats, please," Admiral Sayre ordered.
Cooling metal in the engine of the Wildcat behind Pick creaked. Without thinking about it, he looked over his shoulder. The first thing he thought was, Jesus, it's brand new. Or at least it's been superbly maintained. They even polished the sonofabitch.
Then he noticed that someone had painted miniature Japanese flags-a red circle on a white background-below the canopy. There were six of them: a row of five, and then a sixth meatball under the first meatball in the top row.
Now, what's that bullshit supposed to mean? We didn't paint meatballs on our airplanes. Nobody had his own airplane. We flew anything Big Steve could fix up well enough to get it in the air. Who is this asshole, flying a polished airplane around the States with meatballs painted on it?
Then he saw the neat lettering above the meatballs: 1/LT M. S. PICKERING, USMCR.