In the highest traditions of the Marine Corps, Lieutenant Culhane had died fighting in the valiant—if hopeless—defense of Wake Island. Likewise in the highest traditions of the Marine Corps, then Lieutenant Weston had fought in the valiant—if hopeless—defense of Luzon and Corregidor. And when he had not died, he'd gone on fighting as a guerrilla.
It was not surprising to Major Williamson that Admiral Sayre's daughter was strongly attracted to Captain Weston. And, clearly, Admiral Sayre was not at all displeased that Weston had become a suitor of his daughter.
Forty-five minutes after Captain James B. Weston had waved goodbye to Mrs. Martha S. Culhane from the left seat of the R4-D, he had proved to Major Williamson that his previous, though admittedly limited, experience in the Gooney Bird, plus all of his PBY-5A time, plus his natural ability as a pilot, had combined to turn him into a pilot capable of performing any maneuver within the envelope of the R4-D's capabilities.
An hour after that, after eight touch-and-go landings at the U.S. Army Air Corps field near Midland City, Alabama, Major Williamson was convinced that Weston could fly the Gooney Bird at least as well as most Gooney Bird drivers he knew, and far better than a lot of them. He based this professional judgment not only on the fact that all of Weston's touchdowns, including the first one, had been greasers, but also on the fact that both times he had without warning shut down one of the Gooney Bird's engines on takeoff—a maneuver that caused the aircraft to want to turn abruptly in the direction of the shut-down engine—Weston's response had been immediate, calm, and skillful.
And neither was he worried about Weston's ability to navigate. It was more than reasonable to presume that anyone who had acquired 1,200 hours in a PBY-5A, most of it in the left seat flying over the Pacific Ocean, knew how to navigate.
On his eighth landing at the Midland City Army Air Corps field—again a greaser—Weston touched down within ten yards of the end of the runway. When the speed of the landing roll had decreased enough to put the tail wheel on the ground—the end of the «touch»—meaning, he could either slow further and turn off the runway or apply throttle and take off again—«go»—he looked at Major Williamson for orders.
«Ascend again into the heavens, Mr. Weston,» Major Williamson ordered, «and set course for Asshole, West By God Virginia.»
«Asshole, West Virginia, aye, aye, sir,» Weston replied.
With a skilled hand he advanced both throttles. The Gooney Bird accelerated and the tail came off the ground. A few seconds later, the R4-D was airborne again.
«Wheels up,» Weston ordered. «Dump the flaps.»
And then he remembered he was a student pilot.
«Wheels up, please, sir,» he said. «Reduce flap angle to zero, please, sir.»
Williamson didn't reply until the green wheels up and locked light came on, and the arrow on the flaps control was pointing to zero.
«Wheels up, flaps dumped,» he said.
«Midland, Navy Six Niner Niner,» Weston said to the microphone, as he simultaneously set up his rate of climb and turned the Gooney Bird onto a course that would take them just to the east of Atlanta.
«Six Niner Niner.»
«Thank you for the use of your facility, Midland. We are now going to try —desperately— to find first Fort Benning and then Atlanta. Would you be so kind as to ask them to keep an eye out for us? ETA Benning thirty-five minutes, ETA Atlanta unknown. I can't count that high on available fingers.»
«You're welcome, Navy. We will advise Benning to keep an eye out for you.»
«Thank you again, Midland, and a very good day to you.»
Major Williamson was not surprised to note how skillfully Weston trimmed up the Gooney Bird. Weston was obviously a skilled and experienced pilot.
Birds of a feather, et cetera.
Twenty minutes later, making 170 knots at 7,000 feet over Eufala, Alabama, Major Williamson spoke again. «She's really a nice girl, Weston,» he said.
«Sir?»
«Oh, come on, Jim. I saw you two say goodbye.»
«Oh.»
«She's a really nice girl,» Williamson repeated.
«Yes, sir, she is.»
«And a stunning female!»
Weston looked over at him.
«When you get married, you don't take a solemn vow not to look,» Williamson said.
«Stunning is an understatement,» Weston said.
«In fact, if she wasn't an admiral's daughter and a Marine Aviator's widow, one might go so far as to say she's built like a brick shithouse,» Williamson said.
«Oddly enough,» Weston said, with a clear mental picture of Martha standing naked in the cabin of her father's sailboat, «a somewhat similar thought passed through my head.»
«I probably shouldn't tell you this, Jim—you're not undersupplied with ego— but you're the first guy she's shown any serious interest in as long as I've known her.»
«Is that so?»
«Pensacola is a buyer's market for a girl like Martha. One hell of a lot of eligible young officers have taken their best shots at her. And gotten Maggie's Drawers.» When a marksman—and every Marine is trained to be a rifleman— completely misses his target on a known-distance range, a red flag, «Maggie's Drawers,» is waved in front of the target. «You're the first one to even come close to getting the brass ring.»
«With all respect, sir, is your real name John Alden?»
«Not the last time I looked.»
«You sound as if you're trying to match me up with the lady.»
«It seems to me that Mother Nature has already done that,» Williamson said. «I'm just letting you know Mother Nature rarely makes a mistake.»
Weston didn't reply.
'"Lieutenants should not marry; captains may marry; majors should. You ever hear that, Jim? Or am I putting my nose in where it doesn't belong?»
«As a matter of fact…«
«Don't be impertinent, Captain. You are a very young captain; I am a senior major. It therefore behooves me to counsel you on a matter of importance to your career.»
«With all due respect, Major, sir, go fuck yourself.»
«I was a lieutenant when Margie and I got married,» Williamson said. «I didn't want to get married either. October '41. I was on orders to VMF-219. I thought, Christ, we're going to war. The last thing I wanted to do to Margie was make her a widow. But I couldn't tell her no.»
Weston looked at him.
«We had a seven-day honeymoon,» Williamson went on. «Then I reported to 'Diego, went aboard the
Lexington
—change of orders—and wound up on Midway. I was lucky there. I was determined to go home to Margie. I got six Japs, and that got me railroad tracks, and then I went to VMF-229 on Henderson Field on the 'Canal. Charley Galloway was the skipper. Colonel Dawkins—you know this—was the MAG commander, and he asked Charley which of his pilots should get a squadron, and Charley said me. And I got lucky there, too. I was determined to go home to Margie. And I did, with major's leaves on my collar. I went home to Margie and our brand new son. Marrying her was the best and smartest thing I have ever done.»
«You think you're going to be as lucky the next time?» Weston asked.