"Why not?"
"Was attacking the Val wise, Bill?" Dawkins asked. It was the first time he had spoken.
"I was a little pissed at the time," Dunn said.
"Because of Captain Galloway?" Dawkins asked.
"He was one hell of a Marine, Colonel," Dunn said, and Dawkins saw tears forming in his eyes.
"Getting back to Captain Galloway," the debriefing officer said. "At the time Captain Galloway was reported hit, it has been reported that he had engaged a Zero and seriously damaged it. Did you see any of that?"
"Yeah," Dunn said. Dawkins saw that he was having trouble getting the lump out of his throat. Finally he cleared his throat. His voice was still unnatural.
"I am sure beyond any reasonable doubt that the Zero Captain Galloway was engaging the last time anybody saw him was in flames, missing his left horizontal stabilizer, out of control, and a sure kill."
"Very well, we'll put that down as 'confirmed.'"
"Thank you ever so much," Dunn said sarcastically.
"That makes it three and a half for Captain Galloway and two and a half for Lieutenant Ward, right?" Dawkins asked.
"Yes, Sir," the intelligence officer replied.
"What was the total, Sir?" Dunn asked. "Not, now that I think about it, that I give a flying fuck."
"Eleven this morning," Dawkins said. "And seven this afternoon. That makes eighteen. I think that's probably the most aircraft ever destroyed in a twenty-four hour period by any squadron-Marine, Navy, or Air Corps."
"We get a gold star to take home to Mommy?"
Dawkins ignored him.
"We lost five. Captain Galloway, of course."
"Of course."
"Close your mouth, Dunn," Dawkins snapped, and then went on. "Galloway, missing and presumed dead. Jiggs. We know he's dead. Hawthorne, ditto. Ward, pretty well banged up on landing. And Schneider, wounds of the legs and a broken ankle. Six aircraft lost or seriously damaged. That's not a bad score, Lieutenant."
"It didn't come cheap," Dunn said, "did it?"
"I don't want to wave the flag in your face, Dunn, but don't you think Charley went out the way he would have wanted to?"
"Charley didn't want to go out at all," Dunn said. He stood up. "I'm going to the hospital to see Jim Ward and Schneider," he said.
"I spoke to Ward," Dawkins said. "He asked me if it would be all right with you if he wrote his aunt and told her what happened to Charley. Charley apparently had her listed as 'friend, no next of kin.' I told him I thought you would be grateful."
"Yeah, sure," Dunn said.
"The other letters, you're going to have to write yourself, Bill. In my experience, it's best to do it right away. It doesn't get any easier by putting it off."
It took a moment for Dunn to take Dawkins's meaning. It is the function of the squadron commander to write letters of condolence to the next of kin of officers who have been killed. In accordance with regulations, Lieutenant William C. Dunn had acceded to the command of VMF-229 when the previous commander had been declared missing and presumed killed in action.
"As soon as I see the guys in the hospital, Sir," Dunn said.
"I'll get on it."
"We're not through here, Lieutenant," the intelligence officer said.
"Yes, you are," Dawkins said. "Go ahead, Bill."
(Six)
160 DEGREES 05 MINUTES 01 SECONDS EAST LONGITUDE
09 DEGREES 50 MINUTES 14 SECONDS SOUTH LATITUDE
1820 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942
Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, had a pretty good idea that he was going to die before the sun, now setting, rose again. It could come violently, and soon... in minutes. Or more slowly... he might last the night.
He could think of two possible violent deaths. The most probable, and the most frightening, was from a shark attack.
At the moment he was floating somewhere in the Southwest Pacific. God knows where. It was a circumstance that flung the thought of sharks right out there in the forefront of his mind.
He remembered hearing somewhere a peculiar theory about shark attacks. Peculiar or not, at the moment he took some small comfort from it. This theory held that when a shark bites something-or in this case, someone-it considers to be dinner, the force of the bite is so violent that the person bitten doesn't feel any pain.
The shark bite was somewhat analogous to a gunshot wound. When you're shot, the pain comes later, after the shock has passed. When a shark bites, according to the theory, there'd be no pain at all: a shark would tear away so much flesh-the powerful jaws of a shark could tear away half a leg, or so he had been told-that you passed out from loss of blood before the shock went away and the pain came.
The other sudden, violent death he could think of would be self-induced. He still had his.45 automatic. It had been underwater since he had gone into the drink, of course, but he thought it would still fire. After all, he reasoned, ammunition was designed to resist the effects of water. The cartridge case was tightly crimped against the bullet, and the primer was coated with shellac.
Although they were badly puckered and a dead-fish white, his fingers still functioned. He was reasonably sure he could get the.45 out of its holster, work the action, put the barrel against his temple or into his mouth, and then pull the trigger and see what came next.
It wasn't an idea that attracted him very much, even under the circumstances. In fact, the idea was repugnant. It literally made him shiver. When he was a young marine, for reasons that were never made clear, an old staff sergeant blew his brains all over the wash basins in a head at Quantico. The memory was bright in Charley's mind; he didn't want to go out that way, even if logic told him there wasn't much difference between a shattered head and having half your abdomen ripped off by a shark.
Given the imminent certainty of his death, he thought, it would have been better if he had been killed in the air. That almost happened. Now that he had time to go over it in his mind, he was more than a little surprised that it didn't:
He saw a Zero, a thousand or so feet below him, on Bill Dunn's tail. Bill was firing at a Val and didn't see him. Charley put his Wildcat in a dive and went after the Zero, to get him off Bill's tail.
He got him, almost certainly a sure kill. But as he started to climb out again, another sonofabitch came out of nowhere. Before he knew that anyone was anywhere near him, it was all over.
Parts of the engine nacelle suddenly flew off; a moment later, the engine stopped. Probably 20mms, hitting and shattering jugs, and freezing the engine.
Because he was in a climb when the power stopped, he decelerated rapidly. Moments later, the expected shudder announced a stall. And a moment after that, yellow flames came from the engine.
The nose went down, and the Wildcat began an erratic spin to the right. He reacted automatically. First, he shut off the fuel selector valve. There were probably shattered lines, but it probably wouldn't hurt. Then he pushed the stick full forward-the priority was to pick up airspeed and restore lift- and applied full left rudder.
He didn't remember how many turns he made-five, anyway, probably six-but getting out of the spin took a long time. By then he had a chance to look at the instrument panel. Most of the gauges were inoperative, and there were bulges and tears in the control panel itself, telling him that either explosive rounds had gone off behind it, or that the 20mms that killed the engine had sent shrapnel and/or engine parts into.the back of the panel.