"My God, am I glad to see you!"
"Yeah, me too," Galloway said.
He was fond of Jim Ward for many reasons... and not just because Jim Ward was responsible for his initial meeting with Mrs. Carolyn Ward McNamara, who was Jim's aunt. Carolyn's last letter to Galloway was signed, "all of my love, my darling, always, to the end of time. " And Galloway felt pretty much the same about her.
"These idiots want to evacuate me!" Ward said indignantly, gesturing toward a group of medical personnel at the far end of the fly tent.
"Really? I wonder why?"
"All I've got is some busted ribs."
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?"
"I took some shards from the windscreen," Ward protested.
"And I guess I banged my face against the canopy rails or something. But the bandages and the swelling will be gone in a week." He saw the look on Galloway's face and added indignantly, "Go ask them if you don't believe me."
"Where's Schneider? More importantly, how is Schneider?" First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, a graduate of the Naval Academy and the nephew of an admiral, had only one redeeming feature, in Galloway's judgment. The arrogant, self-important little shit had a natural ability to fly airplanes.
"He's in pretty bad shape," Jim Ward said. "He broke his ankle. I mean bad. And he took a bullet and some shrapnel in his leg. They've been keeping him pretty well doped up." He pointed to a cot at the far end of the fly tent near where the medical personnel were gathered.
"You stay here," Galloway ordered. "I'll ask why you're being evacuated."
"I can fly now, for Christ's sake."
"Yeah, sure you can," Galloway said.
He walked to the foot of Schneider's cot. Schneider's face looked wan, and his eyes, though open, seemed to be not quite focused on the canvas overhead. A cast covered his foot and his left leg nearly up to his knee; and his upper right leg was covered with a bandage from his knee to his crotch. Like Ward, he was peppered with small bandages.
"Hey, Dave, you awake?" Galloway called softly.
Schneider's eyes finally focused on Galloway and recognition came. He smiled and started to push himself up on the cot.
"We heard you were alive, Sir. I'm delighted."
"What happened to you?"
"I took some hits in the leg, Sir. And as I was landing, I found that I was unable to operate the right rudder pedal. I went off the runway and hit a truck, Sir."
"How's the truck?" Galloway asked jokingly.
"I understand it was one of the trucks the Japanese rendered inoperable, Sir," Schneider said, seriously. "I regret that I totaled the aircraft, Sir."
"Well, by the time you get back, we'll have a new one for you."
"Yes, Sir."
"Anything I can do you, Dave?"
"No, Sir. But thank you very much."
"I just came from Espiritu Santo, Dave. What they'll probably do is keep you there no more than a day and then fly you to the new Army General Hospital in Melbourne."
"Not to a Navy hospital, Sir?" Schneider asked, disappointed.
Galloway knew the reason for Schneider's disappointment: Ensign Mary Agnes O'Malley, NNC, might not be serving at the hospital where he was assigned. Mary Agnes O'Malley was a sexual engine who ran most of the time over the red line, and in recent times she liked having Schneider's hands on her throttle.
Jesus, as doped up as he is, he's still thinking about Mary Agnes, hoping she'll be there to nurse him in a way not ordinarily provided. Sorry, Dave, even if you go to a Navy hospital, and Mary Agnes was there with her libido in supercharge, it'll be some time before you'll be bouncing around on the sheets again.
"Hey, Dave," Galloway said. "Hospitals are hospitals."
"Yes, Sir." A small-boned little man in utilities walked up to the cot, swabbed at Schneider's arm with a cotton ball, and then gave him an injection. At first Galloway thought he was a Navy corpsman, but then he saw a gold oak leaf on the little man's collar. He was a lieutenant commander.
He was not wearing a Red Cross brassard, Galloway noticed, and there was a web belt with a Colt.45 automatic pistol in its holster dangling from it.
He looked at Galloway coldly and walked away. When Galloway looked down at Schneider again, his eyes were closed.
Galloway walked after the doctor.
"Got a minute, Doctor?" The little man turned and again looked coldly at Galloway.
"Certainly I have a minute. Obviously there is very little for me to do around here. What's on your mind?"
"Lieutenant Ward, over there," Galloway said, jerking his thumb toward Ward, "doesn't think he really has to be evacuated."
"What are you, his priest or something?"
"I told him I would ask, Commander," Galloway replied.
"OK. He has broken ribs. He can't fly with broken ribs, OK?
His nose is broken, OK? And there is a good chance he has some bone damage in that area. We won't know until we can get a good ENandT guy to take a good look at him, OK? In addition to that, he has a number of small penetrating wounds, each of which, in this fucking filthy humid environment, is likely to get infected, OK? So I made a decision, Chaplain: Either I let this guy hang around here, and not only get sicker, OK? And take up bed space I'm going to need soon, OK? And eat rations, which we don't have enough of as it is, OK? Or I could evacuate him, OK? I decided to evacuate him. OK?"
"OK," Galloway said. "Sorry to bother you."
"I don't know how long you've been around here, Chaplain," the doctor said. "But you better understand that these pilots are all crazy. For example, I just got word that a lunatic in the hospital on Espiritu Santo went AWOL to come back here. The son of a bitch was suffering from exposure and dehydration after he got shot down and floated around in the goddamned ocean for eighteen hours."
"You don't say?"
"Anything else on your mind, Chaplain?"
"No, thank you very much, Doctor." The doctor turned and walked away. Galloway went back to Jim Ward.
"What did he say, Skipper?"
"He said get on the airplane, Mr. Ward. He said unless you do, your wang will turn black and fall off."
"Come on, I can fly."
"Have a good time in Australia, Jim," Galloway said.
"Oh, shit!" Jim Ward said, resigned to his fate.
When Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, wearing a sweat-soaked tropical areas flight suit and a.45 automatic in a shoulder holster, raised his eyes from his desk, he saw Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, standing at the entrance to his tent. Though Dawkins looked hot and hassled, his voice was conversational, even cordial, when he spoke:
"Please come in and have a seat, Captain Galloway, I'll be with you in just a moment."
"Thank you, Sir," Galloway said.
Galloway was worried. He had served under Dawkins for a long time, and he knew Dawkins: When he was really pissed, he really lowered the boom, he assumed the manner of a friendly uncle.
A full two minutes later, Dawkins looked at him.
"I must confess a certain degree of surprise, Captain Galloway. From the description of your physical condition and mental attitude furnished by the medics on Espiritu Santo, I expected a pathetic physical wreck, eyes blazing with a maniacal conviction that the entire war will be lost unless he is there to fight it himself."