"If things go as scheduled-and they rarely do-at 1400 the SBDs should be at altitude here," he pointed again, "in a position to spot either the planes from Ryujo or the planes from Rabaul, or both. VMF-21 l's F4Fs should be about here, just about at the assigned altitude. And Captain Galloway and his people should be about here, almost at assigned altitude.
"We've been over this in some detail, so I'll just touch the highpoints: When the SBDs positively locate the stream of attacking aircraft, or when it is positively located by aircraft from Lexington and/or Sara, they will start to look for the Ryujo, fuel permitting. Fuel permitting is the key phrase. I don't want to lose any aircraft because they ran out of go-juice. When the SBDs start to run low on fuel, they will return here to refuel. I don't want any stupid heroics out there. I think I can guarantee there will be ample opportunity for the SBDs to take on an aircraft carrier, or carriers. It doesn't have to be this afternoon. Unless, of course, our estimates are way off, and you find them sooner than we think you will and can attack and still have enough fuel to get home safely.
"The mission of the fighters is right out of the book. They will locate, engage, and destroy the enemy. And they will do that in the knowledge that if they run out of fuel doing so, a scorned woman's fury can't hold a candle to that of your friendly commanding officer."
There was a murmur of chuckles.
"And something you haven't heard before: Stay off the radio unless you have something to say."
More chuckles.
"No damned idle chatter," Dawkins went on firmly. "When this thing starts, all I want to hear on the radio is business. I want a word with the squadron commanders and the execs. The rest of you may go."
"Ten-HUT!" somebody bellowed. Dawkins was surprised.
He was looking at Charley Galloway, and Galloway didn't even have his mouth open when the command came.
Colonel Dawkins jumped off the truck bed, walked behind the tent wall to wait for his squadron commanders and their executive officers.
(Five)
HEADQUARTERS MAG-21
HENDERSON FIELD GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1715 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942
Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins had decided early on that squadron commanders, and certainly air group commanders, really had no business being present when individual pilots were being debriefed by intelligence officers. With The Skipper standing there, pilots would be far less prone to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, than if they were talking alone, and more or less in confidence, to the debriefing officer.
He decided that the debriefing of First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, USMCR, however, was going to be the exception to this rule. He sent word that when Dunn was to be debriefed, he wanted to be there.
The debriefings were conducted on the bed taken from the Japanese Ford truck. The debriefing officer had set up a folding wooden table in front of the map tripod Dawkins had used in the pre-flight briefing. He sat behind the table. As the pilots came in, one by one, to be debriefed, he waved them into another folding chair in front of his "desk."
Knowing the set up, Dawkins came into the tent carrying his own chair, a comfortable, cushioned, bentwood affair left behind by some departed Japanese officer.
He came around the tent wall as Dunn entered the tent from the other, open, end.
Dunn looked beat. He was hatless. His flight suit had large damp patches around the armpits and on the chest. When he came closer, Dawkins saw that his face was dirty; and, although Dunn had obviously made a half-assed attempt to wash, the outline of his goggles was clearly evident on his face.
Dawkins, smiling, made a gesture to Dunn to come onto the platform. And then he sat down, backwards, on his Japanese chair, resting his arms on the back.
Dunn eyed the debriefing officer suspiciously.
"Sir, where's Captain Frankel?" he asked.
When he was tired, Dawkins had noticed, Dunn's Southern accent became more pronounced. That had come out, "Suh, Whea-uh is Cap'n Frank-kel?"
"He's got the GIs, Bill," Dawkins said. "You know that."
"Don't I know you, Lieutenant?" Dunn asked, but it was more of a challenge than a question.
"Yes," the debriefing officer said. "I debriefed you after Midway."
"I thought I recognized you. I didn't like you then, and I don't like you now. Colonel, do I have to talk to this sonofa-bitch?"
Ah thought ah recog-nazedyou. Ah didn't lak you then an ah don' lak you now. Cunnel, do ah have to talk to this som 'bitch?
"With Frankel down with the GIs, I borrowed him to do the debriefing. It has to be done. You don't have to like him, Bill," Dawkins said calmly, "but you do have to answer his questions. Sit down!"
Dunn looked at him with contempt in his eyes, as if he had been betrayed.
"Sit down, Bill," Dawkins ordered again, calmly.
Dunn met Dawkins's eyes for a moment, and then shrugged and sat down.
"Before we begin, Lieutenant Dunn," the debriefing officer said, "I'd like to say this: If there ever were any questions raised at Midway about your personal behavior, your courage, to put a point on it, your behavior today has put them to rest for all time."
"Jesus!" Dawkins snorted.
"My report will indicate," the debriefing officer plunged ahead, a little confused by Dawkins's snort, "that you shot down four aircraft today, two Zeroes, and one each Betty and Val; that all kills were verified by at least two witnesses. That places you, Lieutenant, one aircraft over the five required to make you an ace. I would be very surprised if you were not given a decoration for greater valor in action, and it probably means a promotion."
"Fuck you," Bill Dunn said very clearly. "Stick your medal and your promotion up your ass."
"That's enough, Bill," Dawkins said. There was steel in his voice. Their eyes locked for a long moment. "Yes, Sir," Dunn said, finally.
"Get on with it, Lieutenant," Dawkins ordered the debriefing officer.
"Well, as they say," the debriefing officer said, "let's take it from the top. In your own words, from take-off until landing. When I have a question, I'll interrupt? OK?"
"Every other pilot who made it back has been in here. How many times do you have to hear the same story?" "Bill, goddamnit, do what he says," Dawkins ordered. "You took off at approximately 1420, is that correct?" the debriefing officer began. "Yeah."
"Was that the originally scheduled take-off time?" "No," Dunn said, "we were supposed to take off earlier, at 1345, but the Colonel changed his mind, and held us on the ground. The SBDs hadn't found the Japs, and he wanted to conserve fuel. We took off when the goddamned radar finally found the Japs."
"Was the take-off according to plan? And if not, why not?" "No. When the scramble order came, everybody tried to get into the air as quickly as possible. The Japs were just about over the field; there was no time to screw around waiting for the slow ones."
"And was the form-up in the air according to plan? And if not, why, in your opinion?"
"No. And I just told you. The Japs were over Henderson. It would have made absolutely no sense to try to form up as the schedule called for. And some airplanes are faster than others. Mine was faster than most."
"So, in your own words, tell me what happened to you after you took off."
"I guess I was eighth, ninth, tenth, something like that,
to get off the ground..."
"Do you remember who was first?" the debriefing officer interrupted.